


The Dalish Arrow

by panterry



Series: Of Arrows and Daggers [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantastic Racism, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panterry/pseuds/panterry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tavaris Mahariel Sabrae wasn’t supposed to be anything special – another notch on Zevran’s belt, or if he was lucky, the person who’d put him out of his misery. </p><p>When he turned out to be neither, he was supposed to be a shield, used and discarded once the threat passed. </p><p>He wasn’t supposed to become home. His soul’s journey and its end.</p><p>Or a complete disaster he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mud

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story has been in works for years. And it probably wouldn't happen, or would look much different than it does, if not for some people.  
> So, in the first place I must mention [Merrik](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merrik/pseuds/merrik), who has been pestering me about this story ever since I started to write it around 2014. Then [Pitkat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitkat/pseuds/Pitkat) and Dragon179 who both used to beta this story at some point and whose imput helped to shape both the narrative as well as my understanding of English language. And last, but not least, [Pants](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenPantaloons/pseuds/GoldenPantaloons) who (maybe accidentaly) pushed me to dig through this story once again. Thanks, Pants (you're an amazing friend and a wonderful human bean, btw)! 
> 
> **For those of you who already know the Dalish Arrow and might want to refresh it,** now that we're back on - here's how it'll work. I'm editing the existing chapters now. Some take faster, some take slower - I won't say how many I have done already, because it's almost 100% sure that I'm going to split some of them or, on the contrary, stick some parts that were scattered along few chapters together. The edits are varied: at some points I just fix grammar, at some I rewrite chunks of text, and there are places where I add whole scenes. I'll try to remember to inform in ANs how much was changed as I upload... But I'm scatterbrained and I might forget about it. I'm sorry. 
> 
>  
> 
> **The updates are going to be more or less daily - or if I don't manage, every second day - up until the point where we'll get to the whole new content. Then... Well, then I'll let you know.**
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I beg you (I'll try to not repeat myself, until I get really desperate): give me some feedback as I update. I saved all of your wonderful comments (I have a folder on my drive now dedicated only to them) but if I don't get any input, even as simple as, Idk, an emote in comments, I feel like I'm shouting in the void. And that's really disheartening (it happens in my other fandom, and I won't pretend that it hadn't brought me to tears once or twice). So please. As long as you are interested, give me a sign. Anything. A smiling emoji. A heart. A '+'. Just to let me know that you're still here. (More elaborate comments are, of course, even more awesome :D). If you want to talk to me on tumblr or anything - do it, too. I'll be more than ecstatic :) 
> 
> Alright. Enough of my babbling.  
> Let's get this party started, shall we?  
>  ####
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own characters, blah blah blah... And I'm not a native English speaker, so I'll be grateful for informing me about any errors, misspellings and sentences that make no sense. Thanks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18th May 2017: So, here's the first of the updated chapters. Probably with the least amount of changes.

The mud had a foul taste. His head throbbed like it was about to explode. Yet both sensations were not something one expected in the throes of death. Perhaps that meant he was not dead at all. The man heaved himself onto his elbows gingerly.

His eyes fell on a pair of leather boots, situated just mere centimetres from his nose. Looking up, a surprisingly pleasant view met him. A pair of wiry thighs emerged from under a leather skirt, and then the rest of his former mark stared down at him with an inscrutable expression. Zevran’s stomach clenched.

Suicidal attempt aside, when faced with the actual risk of dying, Zevran’s survival instincts were too strong to simply give up and let himself be killed. He was absolutely positive he was going to regret his survival very soon, however. If the Warden chose not to kill him himself  and that was, horrifyingly, the best scenario he could think of at the moment the Crows would surely find him. And he was unwilling to even think of the ways in which he would be made an example.

“I…oh…” He squinted, hoping to lessen the pain. “I’d rather thought I’d wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you have yet to kill me.”

“I have some questions,” replied the young Dalish man, his huge, grey eyes peering down at Zevran above an aquiline nose. Arainai had not noticed before how tiny the Warden truly was, even for an elf. During their battle, his opponent had emitted this aura of strength akin to the most formidable fighters. Now that he had the opportunity, he noted the man was probably half a head lower than the Antivan himself, and so slim that it was a wonder that he was not crushed by the weight of his own equipment. Still, he stood poised and calm, somehow appearing much more dangerous than any strapping fighter the Crow had come across in his past.

“Oh, so I am to be interrogated! Let me save you some time, then,” the captive exclaimed, holding up a hand warily. There was nothing to gain here by keeping secrets, after all. “My name is Zevran Arainai, Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving members of the Grey Wardens. A task, which I have failed at, sadly.”

“I’m rather glad you did,” observed the Warden.

“I’d be glad too, were I in your shoes,” Zevran chuckled, “For me, however, it sets up a rather poor precedent. Getting captured by a target seems a tad bit detrimental to one’s budding assassin career, you see.”

The Dalish man’s expression remained blank and Zevran internally cursed. The face of the elf – Tavaris Mahariel, if Zevran remembered correctly – wasn’t telling him much. In contrast, the second Warden, with his look filled with disdain, was as easy to read as an open book. No help there, that was for sure.

“Why are you telling me this?” The Dalish man finally asked. The assassin raised his brows, still hoping for a small opening, something that could tell him how to play the elf. Obviously, the young man was making all of the decisions. Even lying in the mud, Zevran was amused by the notion of an elf ordering humans.

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked flippantly, “I wasn’t paid for my silence – not that I offered it for sale, precisely.” 

Big, grey eyes widened then, and the Dalish Warden asked, “Aren’t you at least loyal to your employer?”

The Antivan finally understood. The Dalish man was not so much guarded; rather he was trying to decipher some completely alien language, reacting only when he finally caught the meaning.

“Loyalty is an interesting concept,” Zevran returned with a charismatic smile. The Warden did not strike Zevran as an unintelligent man. Instead, he wondered if the elf left his clan only recently, so sheltered from the outside world, “If you wish, and you’re done with interrogating me, we could discuss it further.”

“I’m listening,” the standing elf conceded. The assassin watched him for a moment longer, before he made his decision. Under the somber exterior of the Warden he sensed a tenderness that might be his saving grace.

The assassin took a long breath and sigh, “Well, as I have failed in my task of killing you, my life is forfeit. The Crows will kill me now – that’s how it works.  And the thing is, I like living and you, on the other hand, are obviously the sort to give the Crows the pause. So let me serve you, instead.”

There was a flicker in Mahariel’s eyes, before he queried,“Is this the kind of loyalty I might expect, if I agreed?”

“I happen to be a very loyal fellow!” Arainai assured quickly, grasping desperately at the given strand of hope, “Up to the point when someone expects me to die for failing… That’s not a fault, really, is it? I mean, unless you are the sort, who would do the same thing, in which case I don’t come highly recommended, I suppose.”

Was it shock, that odd thing that flashed on another elf’s face? The Crow could not really tell. But the next question was actually sensible. And promising.

“And why would I want your services?”

“Oh, I am skilled at many things,” Zevran offered, “Weapons, stealth, lockpicking. I could warn you if the Crows attempted anything again. I also know a great many jokes, twelve massage techniques, six different card games. I’d do wonderfully at parties, no?” His expression turned lurid then, as he could not help himself from adding, “and should you ever have need for any other kind of more… sophisticated services? You’d find no one more discreet and subtle than I.” He pursed his lips in mock thought, “And if not, I could simply mend your armour, if that’s what you desire.”

He’d gladly go into further details of these “sophisticated services” if the Warden asked, but he decided that it would be better not to push his luck. Fereldans were quite prude about sex, he discovered, and the assassin was unsure where the Dalish stood on the subject.

He could not help the disappointment when the elf only asked what he would want in return. No curiosity. Really? Still, two women beyond Warden were gorgeous enough to keep him occupied for a while. Or one, as the brunette mage, while absolutely stunning, sent a glare that instantly cooled his libido.

“Oh, being allowed to live would be nice, I guess. And it would make me slightly more useful to you too. Of course, when you have no further use of me, I’d like to go my way too, yes?”

After a moment, the Dalish man reached for the assassin’s hand and helped him onto his feet. The pull of his arm was surprisingly strong, considering the elf’s build, but observing the bow secured over his shoulder, which was almost as long as the archer himself, Zevran reminded himself not to be so shocked. A great strength was required to draw something like that; something the Antivan was uncertain he could even do.

“What?” The other Warden interjected, appalled, “are we taking the assassin with us now? Does it really seem like a good idea?”

“We could use him, Alistair,” the elf deadpanned.  Zevran saw now that the Warden was quite young. Shockingly so. The assassin thought himself rather blooming, given his thirty-two years. Yet Mahariel was at least ten years younger, barely out of the childhood. He was no expert on the Dalish culture and customs, but something awful must have happened if Mahariel’s Keeper had chosen to let him leave the clan so early.

Still holding the young man’s hand, Arainai bowed his head and fisted his free hand to his heart, “I hereby pledge my loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear.”

“Great! “Alistair growled, “Should we need a sign to show we are so desperate, it just came by and kicked us in the face.”

The archer glanced back toward Zevran in mild consternation, “Even if he wouldn’t be useful, I wouldn’t let a man to be killed just because he failed to kill me.”

The mage chose to speak, an amused tone echoing within her words, “I was going to say that it is a fine plan to keep the assassin, Tavaris, but were we not just in battle?”

The young man blushed slightly, causing Zevran to grin wickedly despite his better judgement. Despite his bashfulness, Tavaris replied rather coolly, “Morrigan, it’s one thing to die while fighting, another to be killed because of it.”

Morrigan hummed in resignation, “Do what you wish, but I’d watch my food carefully from now on, were I you.”

“That is excellent advice for anyone!” Zevran added, realizing only now that he was still holding the Warden’s hand. He let it drop hastily, slightly confused.

“Well, it’s a good thing to have an Antivan Crow fighting with us,” The second woman nodded. She was much plainer than Morrigan, but still pretty easy on the eyes. Zevran turned to her with a grin, that was, in his opinion, rather charming.

“Oh, so there’s another companion-to-be! I didn’t know that such a loveliness existed between adventures!”

She furrowed her brow.

“Or perhaps not.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline here is slightly changed: Loghain sends assassins as soon as he learns (thanks to his men in Lothering) that there are still two Wardens alive. Wardens go straight to Redcliffe and then to Denerim - and they're on their way from Redcliffe to the capital when they walk into the Zevran's ambush. So there's a really long road before them.


	2. An elf and the city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18th May 2017: Second of the updated chapters; you might want to check the AN at the beginning of the first if you haven't. I'm speaking there about editing process, updating, stuff like that.  
> Here we have an added scene at the beginning and some minor changes in the body of the chapter. (I noticed that the later the chapter, the more stuff I change there...)

The next few days were terribly uncomfortable.  Apparently, there was an end to Mahariel’s trust — or naivety. Or maybe it was just Alistair’s incessant whining, but the end result was dissatisfying either way. The Warden hadn’t agreed to go back to his camp to gather Zevran’s belongings, or for the assassin to go on his own, so all Zevran had were his weapons, clothes on his back and a few trinkets he kept on his person anyway.

Even though Mahariel tried to make it up by getting some of the equipment from a dwarf merchant who tagged along with the Wardens’ group, it wasn’t enough — Bohdan simply didn’t have everything they needed at hand.  So, while he was given his own bedroll, along with a few furs gifted to him by the elven Warden, he still didn’t have a tent or change of clothes and during the day he was forced to travel on a pack mule, which was a stubborn, ornery bastard which seemed to be offended by the very fact that it had to carry an elf among the other luggage.

That made for miserable journey and Zevran fought off the gloom that threatened to take over him in the only way known to him; by making advances and inappropriate jokes.

As his target he picked Leliana, who was reasonably pretty, much less hostile than others and had a fabulous hair colour which seemed quite exotic to him. There weren’t many redheads in Antiva.

The first day went smoothly enough for him to get some hopes up. The second, Leliana resorted to throwing things. The fourth, Mahariel took him to a side with a stern expression, stiffly telling him to stop harass the girl. The fifth, he earned a solid shiner from Alistair who decided to defend Leliana’s honour — much to her chagrin, as it seemed. The sixth, Zevran gave up, finding his solace in the fact they were approaching Denerim instead.

He hoped for an opportunity to restock, a clean bed, and maybe a nice visit to the Pearl to get rid of the tension that wrecked his whole body. For a moment Mahariel seemed amiable to his request and Zevran could almost taste the sweetness wine and release he’d find in the whorehouse — but Morrigan — of all the possible people — took him for a talk that lasted uncomfortably long, and when they returned, the elf sourly announced that Zevran was going to join him and Alistair in the city, while Leliana was to be responsible for getting supplies they needed.

Also, they were supposed to camp outside the city which made Zevran groan loudly. Unfortunately, the reasoning he was presented with, made too much sense — since both of the Wardens were wanted men and Morrigan was an apostate to boot, they wanted to avoid people as much as it was possible. That included staying out of the cities as much as possible.

 

As they entered Denerim through the Trade Gate, Zevran noted the most peculiar thing.  Mahariel, who was either eerily calm or frowning the whole time the assassin knew him, blanched. It appeared to take all of his will to keep his back straight and expression from dissolving into sheer panic. Giant, grey eyes scanned their surroundings nervously, and the young man — no, the boy — looked as though he might jump at the slightest unexpected sound.

 Zevran was quite impressed when, despite all the skittishness, Mahariel did not jump. In fact, he kept himself still enough not attract any attention from Alistair who was babbling excitedly about meeting some long lost relative. The dog noticed, though, and was nuzzling the young elf’s hand with his snout, probably covering it in drool in the process. 

But the assassin was far more perceptive than the blond Warden, and saw plainly that underneath the relatively calm façade, his ex-mark was terribly frightened. The boy’s free hand was clutching hilt of his dirk and he seemed to be as ready to draw it as to bolt.

 “Ah, the market!” Exclaimed the Antivan, hoping to distract the Dalish a little. It would do no good for Tavaris to act like the servant who stole his master’s weapons. When you were an elf among the humans you had to act like you belonged or you invited all sorts of troubles — Zevran learnt that little tidbit of information years ago. So he careened back to his companion and continued with an exaggerated joviality, “Pickpocket’s home way away from home!”

 The Warden twitched and looked at him briefly.

 “You’re familiar with this kind of places, then?” He asked, tone serious as though he might inquire about a long lost tomb or exotic jungle.

 “Familiar?” Zevran chuckled. “Dear Warden, this place is nothing compared to the Great Market of the glorious Antiva City. That’s a place you could really get lost in. Like in a labyrinth of the old kings! And I knew every passage.” He winked then, smiling at the younger elf, “These few stalls are barely worthy of the name.”

 “Really?” Tavaris replied as he peered around many the booths swashed in the roadway.

 “Really,” The assassin clucked, amused by this boy lost in the big city. He had made one mistake, he realized, when he  had planned assassination of this Warden. If he prepared the ambush in a town, Mahariel probably would be too confused to protect himself effectively. But as for now, he’d rather prefer the Warden to stay in one, combat-ready, piece and his skittishness was absolutely counterproductive to this goal. So he just smiled charmingly, trying to calm the nervous boy down.

 “Stay close to me, dear Warden, and no harm will come to you in this place,” he said. And although the words were spoken half in jest, he was truly surprised when Mahariel indeed shuffled close to him, like a child in search of protection.

 “I’ve never seen so many  _shemlen_  in one place,” the boy whispered, and Zevran sighed inwardly. Not only was the Dalish overwhelmed, but was shockingly gullible as well. The Antivan meant him no harm – losing the Warden would cause him a world of problems right now – but Mahariel could not know that for sure. Still, he responded to him like a trusted friend, not a person who tried to kill him mere days ago. Worse yet, this faith was probably for no better reason than for the shared shape of their ears.

That was disastrous when considering that this kid was his sole guard against the Crows. Zevran felt the urge to cry, laugh, curse his poor luck, and, oddly enough, hug the source of his problem.  There was something about these big, scared eyes that made him wish he could just hold him and promise that everything would be alright.

He did none of these things, however, as the mere urge was something rather alien for him, something he didn’t want to dwell upon. Instead he put his most charming smile on, and he said, “don’t worry about them. After we finish our business here, I can take you to the Pearl – I’ve heard many good things about this whorehouse – and there you might see, that humans aren’t much different than us.”

The Warden blushed. The deepest shade of red that Zevran ever saw ripped across one cheek and then the other. Oh, that was going to be fun, he thought. Mahariel swallowed and opened his mouth to reply when there was shout to their left.

“Hey, you! Dalish!”

 Mahariel turned.

“I recognize you! From Ostagar!” It was a middle-aged knight with a blond beard and sharp eyes. Eyes that now bore in elf’s face full of suspicion. He groused, “You’re a Grey Warden – Duncan’s apprentice. You killed my friend, and the good king Cailan too. I demand satisfaction, ser! An uncommon traitor deserves no common death.”

To Zevran’s surprise, Tavaris regained his composure in a blink of an eye. Once again he was this young, solemn man who spared his life on the road, despite the telltale reddening of the tips of his ears that betrayed he still thought about their exchange.

The knight continued to rant, “We will meet on the field of honor, and my blade will see the justice done. Meet me in the back alley behind the Gnawed Noble Tavern. There we will duel.”

 The elf listened with an expression of polite interest, and then looked nobleman in the eye.

 “Loghain’s charges against the Wardens are false,” he countered calmly, but so quietly that the knight had to bow to him a little to hear what was said. Zevran had to admit that he really liked the subtle additional touch. The knight would be livid if he realized what he was doing, but the assassin was sure that the passersby noticed the richly dressed human bent toward the lowly elf in a ridiculous imitation of respect.

 “So you would add slander to your treason?” The knight balked in outrage, “You dare smear Teyrn Loghain’s word?!”

 Mahariel shrugged.

 “Use your wit. The Wardens would never help the Darkspawn.” The good knight still had not noticed that he was virtually bowing to an elven vagrant.

 “And you want me take the word of someone like you?” He almost spat, “The honor demands—”

 The young elf sighed, not bothering to hide his annoyance anymore.

 “Your honor, not mine, _shem_ ,” he said and turned his back to the flabbergasted noble, ignoring him for his comrade and speaking in a hushed tone, “Do you know which way we should go, Alistair? This city is getting on my nerves.”

Zevran smiled to himself. Oh, that’s more like it. As the second Warden was explaining difficulties with finding the address, Mahariel rolled his eyes.

“Zevran, please, can you make any sense of this?” he glanced toward the assassin with hope sheening in his pupils, “I can’t find my own head in this place, and I believe I angered this warrior—” He asked suddenly, with worried expression. “Would it cause a problem? I didn’t want to kill anyone here, we are in enough trouble as it is.”

“He’ll probably tell his friends that you’re a coward,” Zevran shrugged. “Given that they already believe that all elves are cowards by the virtue of the race, I don’t think that it would do any harm. I would just advise clearing the area before he decides it would be prudent to alert the guard. As for finding the house… Well, I’m a stranger to this city as well, but have you considered asking someone about directions? That girl seems nice enough.” He pointed toward a maid carrying a basket of fruit. The basket didn’t look very heavy, so there was good chance that she wouldn’t be annoyed by a good looking lad asking a few questions.

“Alistair, go. I guess it better if another  _shem_  is inquiring,” Mahariel weaved his hand airily, and the senior Warden complied, grumbling quietly on his way.

 

In the meantime, Zevran observed the younger elf. It was impressive to see how, during this brief encounter, the Dalish man gathered his wits and took control of the situation. There was still a shadow of a bewildered look in his eyes, sure sign that Mahariel still felt uncomfortable, but he was in his right mind now, aware of his surroundings and conscious of his behaviour.

 “Have anyone told you, you look impossibly sexy when talking down big, angry humans, dear Warden?” The Antivan gave him a lopsided smile. It was absolutely true. The slender elf had a body to kill for and the forceful calmness he was able to emanate, when he put his mind to it, made Zevran’s skin prickle.

“Excuse me?” He asked as those pretty, grey eyes grew impossibly wider.

The Crow laughed.

“You look sexy when you are like that,” he repeated, still smiling. “There’s a certain allure in this kind of power and I admit, I’m very partial to it. Or is that a bad thing to say?” He added as an afterthought. “I didn’t wish to offend or make you uncomfortable! I simply desire to appreciate a handsome man being, well, handsome.” He looked at Mahariel, a picture of feigned innocence.

 Said handsome man was silent for a while, processing what Zevran had said. Finally, uncertainly, as if he wasn’t sure how should he take this declaration, he answered, “Well, thank you, I guess?”

That was a tad disappointing. It seemed that Zevran’s meaning flew over these pretty ears, lost to the uncomprehending audience. He should work on it, he decided. The young Warden had a blush that was in equal parts charming and amusing. Before he could make another attempt at flustering the young man, though, Alistair returned, his expression triumphant.

 “I know, I know!” He exclaimed, grinning like a madman. “Goldanna lives on the next street!”

 “And brother Genitivi?” asked Mahariel quietly. Alistair’s face fell instantly and he looked at the other Warden like a kicked puppy.

 “I… I forgot to ask,” he admitted.

 The elven hunter sighed, “Well, that’s a pity. Let’s go for now, and we’ll ask for way again later.”

 They reached their destination quickly, and after a bit of dawdling, due to Alistair’s sudden cold feet, both Wardens disappeared in the shabby house. The assassin used this time to get precise directions to the scholar’s house, and felt quite pleased with himself by the time the pair returned. Alistair appeared crestfallen, Zevran hearing only the tail end of the discussion.

 “At the end, everyone will be for themselves, I think,” Mahariel was speaking, smiling sadly. “I can’t even imagine, how it feels to be so rejected by your own family, but even with a little misfortune, I lost mine. I never, in my worst nightmares, imagined it could happen, but now I realize that could hit any time, for whatever reason. You are the only person you can always count on. The rest? Fleeting.”

 “You’re probably right,” Allistair muttered, studying his boots, “I never thought I could have a normal family, and it seems I was right. So, nothing new here.”

 Tavaris placed his slim hand briefly on his companion’s shoulder.

“For what it’s worth, I’ll try my best to be there for you, as long as it’s possible.”

 Alistair nodded heavily and the elven Warden turned to Zevran. “We need to find—”

 “Don’t bother, my dear Warden,” interrupted the Antivan, “I already know, where we should go.”

 

The business at the Genitivi’s house was short and grisly. The man, who welcomed them claimed to be researcher’s assistant and tried to send them away without any meaningful information. Tavaris would let him, but something in the man’s posture made Zevran suspicious. It takes a liar to know a liar, and after some prying, it turned out that the assassin was right. Whoever it might have been, the man, now a corpse on the floor, surely was not Genitivi’s friend. Another grim discovery in the back room revealed the fate of the real assistant, yet there was no sign of the scholar himself.

 Tavaris looked around the room filled with books up to the ceiling and closed his eyes with a tried expression.

 “Alistair, please, go to the camp and fetch the rest.  Leliana should be back already anyway and we have to read through all these,” he waved a hand around, “and find some clues about brother’s whereabouts. We could use some help.”

 “Are you insane?” Alistair turned to his sworn brother with a horrified expression, “You want me to leave you alone with the assassin who was hired to kill you?”

“Kill us, I believe, and he’d sworn an oath to me now,” Mahariel’s expression morphed into annoyance and he reached for the bookshelf to start perusing — though his pained face revealed that he wasn’t very comfortable with the written text, “I don’t have need for a bodyguard. Please, fetch the rest. Especially the girls.”

“You know, dear Warden,” Zevran interjected with a chuckle, heaving himself up to sit on the table. “Alistair isn’t entirely wrong. It might be considered a bit reckless to stay alone with a man who was paid to take your life.”

 The younger elf raised his head, looked incredulously at the Antivan, and said with wide open eyes, “Are you going to kill me, when Alistair leaves, Zevran?”

 Zevran laughed.

 “And would I tell you if I was?” He replied, “No, Alistair, you can leave your precious friend safely with me. I really prefer him over the Crows.” 

“You see?” The hunter looked at the human with a confidence born out of simplicity,  “He won’t do anything. And even if he tried, I have Thushel with me,” He patted mabari’s head and turned back to the shelf. “Just go.”

Alistair looked at the Warden’s back a minute or two more, as though he were trying to telepathically convince the elf to change his mind. Then, he did some awkward gesture at Zevran, which probably was some kind of warning like ‘I’m watching you’ or ‘I’m going to hunt you to the end of the world if you try anything’ before he finally left.

“You know, dear Tavaris, Alistair usually acts like his brain is made of something light and fluffy, but he has a point here,” Zevran said absently fingering a random book, “I’m sworn to you, and I intend to keep that oath, but not everyone would be as trustworthy as I,” He snickered, “You should keep in mind that people tend to lie. Take this poor fellow for example,” He swung his leg in the general direction of the corpse, “You were perfectly willing to let him feed us a lie, and now we would probably be heading in the opposite direction at best, straight into an ambush at worst.”

 Mahariel tucked a golden strand of hair behind his ear and smiled gingerly at Zevran.

 “Yes, you’re probably right. But he was a  _shem_ ,” he answered as though it explained everything. The assassin rolled his eyes and started to laugh helplessly.

 “You really don’t get it, do you?” He asked with a tired resignation, “It’s not about the  _shem_  and humans. You told Alistair that everyone is for himself, and you were right — yet still, you probably even don’t understand why you are right. The world is a dark place, my dear Warden, and it may be that the Blight isn’t the darkest thing that you may encounter in your travels.”

 “ _Shem_ and  _Elvhen_ ,” corrected Mahariel somberly, as it was the most important thing Zevran had said, then returned to the reading.

This Dalish was a very frustrating man to deal with, the assassin decided. He was not stupid, Zevran was sure, but he was so stubbornly blind to the realities of living outside the safety of his isolated community, that it seemed like the ranger had a death wish.

Well, perhaps he had, reflected the Antivan after a while, watching the golden head bend over the book. Zevran himself was not a stranger to that feeling, and he suspected that Tavaris Mahariel did not join the Wardens willingly. As far as Zevran knew, the young man probably had his own Rinna haunting his sleep.

 The Warden worked and Zevran thumbed a book lazily, entertaining himself by imagining Mahariel naked. He was curious how far his clan tattoos went. His own adornments reached some very interesting places, but what about the hunter? After some pondering, he decided that it was highly unlikely that this blushing boy showed anyone enough body to make these markings really fun. But tattoos or not, he surely had a nice ass, obvious even under the leather skirt of his armor. Flashes of strong thighs between wide leather stripes were deliciously appealing, and the assassin reflected that whoever designed the most popular style of leather armors in Ferelden must have had a thigh fetish. Zevran approved.

 

His musings were interrupted by the clatter in the hall. The rest of their merry company was here. Alistair stormed into the room with an expression betraying his expectations  clearly – that was to find the Antivan laughing menacingly over Tavaris’ cold body. The Crow smiled with all the innocence he could muster and held empty hands in the air, “Still here, you see. No foul play. Your Warden friend is safe and sound, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, it’s good to have you all here,” Mahariel turned to his companions, motioning at the bookshelves with a tight-lipped smile, “We have much to do.”

They worked late into the night. Or to be fair, most of them worked late into the night. Zevran spent the better half of his time leafing through the same book again and again, entertaining himself in a way that surely would not be found appropriate by the rest. He shamelessly ogled almost everyone in the room – except Sten, who really wasn’t his type – but returned every time to that young, elven butt. The girls were quite fair and Alistair was a fine build man, but something in the Dalish intrigued Zevran enough to draw his attention repeatedly, despite the fact that he usually was more partial to feminine charms .

It was quite late, when Mahariel put one of the books back on the shelf and sat down on the floor with a desperate moan. “I can’t find anything,” he said, looking straight at the assassin.

 Zevran busied himself with the book; suddenly worried he might be caught in his reverie. Glancing through the page, for the first time he took a moment to see what he was actually reading.

 “Wait,” he exclaimed with astonishment, “I believe I found something.”

 Zevran was holding Brother Genitivi’s private journal. Morrigan snatched it out of his hand with a suspicious expression, to which Zevran answered with an innocent shrug.

 The sum of Brother Genitivi’s work all pointed to the tiny village of Haven, a remote settlement deep in the Frostback Mountains. After some arguing over the route Tavaris decided that they would travel using a path through the Brecilian Forest, taking a small detour to invoke the ancient treaties along the way.

“We cannot make any useless excursions! People’s lives are in danger!” Allistair protested.

“The entirety of Thedas is in danger,” Tavaris retorted calmly, “I don’t desire to chase down clans fleeing from the Blight. Right now I know they are here,” He pointed at the map, “I must to ask them to gather the rest of the clans, and they will need time to do it.”

He looked at the Alistair then and smiled timidly, almost permissively, “It would be only a short detour.”

The archer’s argument was solid, but it did not escaped Zevran’s attention that the mention of the  _Elvhen_  clans made the young man’s eyes brighten for the first time since he met him. The poor kid must been terribly homesick, the assassin thought, sighing inwardly. He understood; the nights, when he was not dreaming about Rinna’s eyes, he dreamt about the smell of tanneries, Antivan rains and flowers, the buzz of the lively streets.

 “We’ll move with the first light,” announced the Dalish when they were back in their camp, shovelling the third bowl of stew into his mouth; both of the Wardens ate like wolves, as the assassin noticed.  But now it was Zevran’s turn to protest. Leliana brought him some basic supplies and a horse, but it was not enough.

“Oh no! We’re not going anywhere until I find myself a really warm cloak,” he demanded, “This country is harsh and cold at its best, and you want me to go into the mountains? Mountains that have frost in their very name?” Mahariel opened his mouth to say something, but the Antivan stopped him, “No, my dear Warden. You want a useful assassin, not the one with balls frozen to the horseback, yes?”

“I don’t think you need balls to fight, elf,” Sten returned with his usual, humorless tone.

“I believe, he was speaking figuratively,” Leliana interjected, giggling.   

Tavaris spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, “Fine, fine. You’ll have till noon.”

 

They didn’t move at noon. In fact, they didn’t go anywhere till the next day. No stall, no booth in the whole Denerim had a cloak warm enough to satisfy the Antivan elf. Finally he bought two, both lined with fur, and spent the evening stitching them both together with the reluctant help of very annoyed Leliana.

 What was surprising, while whole company had shown obvious signs of irritation – Zevran’s bickering definitely was getting on everyone’s nerves – Mahariel just looked at him, smiled gingerly, telling him that he hoped Zevran would be warm enough now, and that he was sorry they had to travel to a such cold place. From anyone else, Zevran would consider it a jibe, but the younger elf seemed genuinely concerned about his wellbeing. No judgement, no annoyance, just simple worry that made Zevran quite uneasy. He was unused to this kind of treatment, and he did not think he deserved it — especially considering that he spat in the face of the last person who cared about him in any way as he watched her die.

 


	3. Trust feely given

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19th May 2017: This was originally two chapters, but since they were short and followed roughly the same theme, I decided to put them together. Not much new content, but the existing one was rather thoroughly edited for the sake of better conveying Zevran's thoughts and feelings about the situation he found himself in.

They were on the road for only a few days when Zevran found himself by the fire, absently sharpening one of his daggers while also discreetly watching the young Warden across from him. For all of his quirks, the assassin observed so far that Tavaris Mahariel was everything a Grey Warden was meant to be: an excellent archer, a proficient swordsman and a solid leader to their odd party. He had a way to bring them all together, despite their differences and never shrank away from the responsibility. As ridiculous as it was to see an elf in charge, Zevran quickly got used to it as the boy was a _natural_.

Yet there were moments late into the evening, when the young man thought no one was looking, moments when his expression softened and revealed who he really was: a young Dalish boy far away from home.

While in Denerim it was difficult not to notice that Mahariel was in fact very young and scared, his age was not so obvious outside the city. Here, these moments were caught by a sheer accident. The Warden was pleasant enough to look at, and Zevran was never one to deny himself the pleasure of ogling, clandestine as it was. The younger elf’s honey blond hair framed a sleek face with high cheekbones and flowed the length of his back almost to his thighs. He pinned that mane into a ponytail low below his shoulder blades. The style seemed impractical, yet still managed to make the young man all the more fetching. The elegant clan tattoos complimented an aquiline nose and huge, almond-shaped eyes, giving him a slight resemblance to that of a falcon — vigilant and bright, but not sharp enough to make him look unpleasant. His wide, refined jaw completed the strong profile, giving the impression of a strong, masculine character which he presumably needed to cope with what was probably a completely alien reality to him.

 Tavaris’ eyes were the most expressive aspect about him. When the young man allowed himself relax a bit, the grim determination, visible even with his friendly attempts towards their companions, disappeared replaced with great longing, that made him seem almost haunted… And in some odd way Zevran found it endearing. Usually he was uninterested in tormented people, as they tended to be killjoys, too focused on their own problems to notice that not everyone wanted to spend their days sulking. However, he sensed that this distant gaze came out of loneliness, and such loneliness was not lost on him. How difficult it must be to keep everyone in their little group as comfortable as possible with the shadow of a Blight hanging above their heads. Always accepting, never judging and accommodating to their needs as well as it was possible, he managed to bring his companions close together, even if he himself never really fit into the group.

At first Zevran enjoyed observing how the solemn Dalish man struggled with understanding life outside the clan — it was quite entertaining, really, to watch him as he tried to navigate the world of humans using his exotic mindset. His squabbles with Alistair over the simplest of things, usually ending in mutual confusion, for example, were rather enjoyable. In some ways, Mahariel was much farther from home than Zevran himself and that notion concerned him. The Warden was so impossibly innocent that he seemed to never fully comprehended why Loghain sent Zevran in the first place, let alone other, more subtle problems. There seemingly was no one to explain to him how the world outside the clan worked — Alistair was nearly as clueless as the elf, be that from his upbringing or sheer stupidity, Sten was far too aloof to care, Leilana so blinded by Chantry hymns that she could easily impress that all humans were batshit crazy, and Morrigan’s attempts to set Tavaris straight were voiced so cruelly that the boy began to openly avoid her. That left only Thushel — the hunter’s mabari — and Zevran, and the assassin was rather sure that the dog would not give the young Warden the Talk.

This naïve, lost boy was everything that stood between Zevran and the retaliation of the Crows. And as for now it was an appallingly fragile barrier. Something had to be done because Blight or no, the disaster so far had only been avoided by sheer luck.

The younger elf turned back to the pile of wood and picked a log to toss into the fire. Slender as he was, the hunter was also beautifully muscled and Zevran felt a rather unexpected pang of desire as he watched Tavaris’ back shifting under a linen tunic. He had pondered for a while how the boy might look covered only by scented massage oil, a wicked grin surfacing at such a thought. Mahariel might not fit the usual profile of his preferred lover, but he was still well built, exotic and full of completely unrealized sensuality. There was also that charming blush that appeared at a mere mention of sex and Zevran was really curious how far it went. He already decided that he needed to get as close to the Warden as possible simply by point of survival, so why not to try and mix some pleasure into that? Seducing him could be the perfect way to make certain that he would actually listen to Zevran’s advice and that he’d keep him close, thus ensuring that his ridiculous guilelessness would not kill them both.

There was, of course, the risk that the Dalish elf would be absolutely repelled by the idea of making love to another man, but that was a risk Zevran was perfectly willing to take. Perhaps it was a bit reckless, but… if he was unable to enjoy life’s small pleasures, then he might as well go back to Antiva, taking with him a silver platter for his head.

 “So we’re heading to Brecilian now, yes?” He asked, wiping the dagger’s blade with dry cloth, “Is this your clan, you want to meet?”

Mahariel stirred, lurched really, seemingly coming back to the reality, only to realize the other man was present by the fire at all. The shocked expression disappeared almost instantly, as the elf donned his usual, solemn mask.

 “No,” he answered calmly, looking somewhere above Zevran’s ear. An unnerving habit, the Antivan was unsure if it was his Dalish upbringing or some coping method toward his environment. He sincerely hoped for the latter, as it would be much easier to get rid of it in this case, “My clan went west. By now, I believe they must be somewhere in Orlais.”

“Orlais? Sensible, I think. West to Orlais, then north to Antiva, or Rivain, yes? Far from the darkspawn,” Zevran smiled approvingly. “Were it not for the fact that grisly death awaits me both here and in the North, I would go there myself.”

The young Warden quirked a brow.

“You are free to go anytime, Zevran,” he voiced carefully. This conscious articulation was yet another odd quirk the assassin caught on to, and he surmised that Mahariel was afraid his accent was too thick.

“I won’t hold you here against your will,” the Warden continued, “Maybe the Anderfels? It should be safe enough.”

The Antivan assassin scoffed, “Anderfels? Maker, no! From all that I’ve heard, I’d prefer to take my chances with the Blight here than move to that graveyard of a country.”

 Tavaris’ brows knit further together and Zevran hurried with an explanation, “All the Anders I’ve ever met, and I’ve met my share of them, my dear Warden, were so content not to be dead that they really didn’t bother to live. And I actually like living, thank you very much.” He smiled charmingly at the young elf. “Cold beds and dull food aren’t exactly my thing.”

“Cold beds? I thought Ferelden is much colder than…” Queried the younger man, slowing his speech once the real message struck. Suddenly shy, Tavaris dropped his gaze to his feet, a pink singe gracing his cheeks. He uttered a soft reply, “Oh…”

Zevran swallowed a heavy sigh. Mahariel’s blush was pretty cute, but fact that it appeared on even such a innocent for his standards remark, was alarming. Virginity, albeit whimsical in romance novels, was not something he cared for in a lover.  Maybe he should think the seduction plan over again. He managed a chuckle, for appearances sake, after all, “Yes, much colder, indeed.”

 

They moved south — a little further for Zevran to feel comfortable, but they were to fight the Blight after all, anyway. He guessed that you couldn’t fight the Blight without approaching the Darkspawn first — and the Wardens claimed that the bulk of the Horde still remained far away. He was unsure how they knew, but in the end had no choice but to trust their judgement. Still, the chance of encountering darkspawn on the road grew with every passing day.

Suddenly, it was as though all the darkspawn attacked at once. Two parties were confronted before lunch, including six genlock archers, eight hurlocks and an ogre. It was possibly the strongest group the assassin had ever seen.

Zevran felt a wave of nausea hit just by the sight of gangly, rotting things. At the first battle, he had to back out the fight covered by Mahariel himself, in order to return his breakfast. He was completely useless after that and Alistair was deeply annoyed, but the Dalish showed some of that steel  he usually saved for battle, scolding the other Warden while trying to help Zevran. He looked like he understood what the Antivan was going through. With his helper covered in the putrid darkspawn blood, Zevran could only add to the conversation by continuing to regurgitate his feelings. Still, he appreciated the sentiment.

 

Now, not so many days later, he felt only a little bit nauseous, but quite positive that he could wait until the battle was over to puke in the bushes. Mahariel smiled at him reassuringly while nocking an arrow, returning his attention to the darkspawn feeding on some poor travellers on the road. They were hidden in the shrubs by the trail — the Wardens warned them a while ago what they are going to encounter. Some sixth sense or magic, the assassin wasn’t sure how much he really wanted to know.

Zevran stole a glance at the unmoving silhouette of the ranger, now all sharp lines and angles, tense as the string of his bow.

“Sten, Alistair, I want you both on the ogre,” Tavaris commanded quietly, “Leliana, Zevran, Morrigan — take care of the hurlocks. I’ll take the archers.”

There were short nods of acknowledgement, and the two warriors rushed through the brush, crunching the dried leaves of encroaching winter. All of the darkspawn turned to the two men, allowing plenty of opportunity for the remaining three to catch them off-guard.

Zevran sprinted from the cover to the nearest hurlocks, on his way quickly signing to Leliana about the weakness in the armor of one of the creatures. Then just as quickly, he dove under the heavy sword of another, cutting the tendons behind its knees. The beast fell, and the assassin released it with a cut to the throat before turning to the next just in time to dodge the wide arc of an axe.

He staggered, thrown off balance, the darkspawn already pushing forward, taking advantage of the elf’s situation. He parried the heavy axe, having no other choice in his precarious position, and his wrist stiffened from the impact, making him drop the blade. Things started to look grim. But then, a slender arrow whizzed by Zevran’s ear, striking directly into the hurlock’s neck. The assassin cast a stunned glance in Mahariel’s direction only to see the archer smiling warmly — an expression weirdly at odds with his focused posture.

There was no time to savour the victory, however. The Antivan snatched his dropped dagger and turned his attention back to the field, searching for the next opponent. Morrigan’s freezing missiles found two of their enemies already; the shards shattering as the spell wore off. Zevran jumped at the first one, kicking violently and pushing on the second one. As the last genlock fell, the assassin could see the arch of his companion’s slender arrow flying overhead, landing on target into a hurlock’s mouldy neck.

It was a quick job then, and Zevran focused his attention on the ogre. The huge beast had already done a number on the larger fighters in their merry band. Sten was limping and Alistair was bleeding profusely somewhere from his left arm, twisted unnaturally despite the heavy armour. Tavaris and Leliana were both trying to find a weak point with their arrows, but their attempts were futile. Only Morrigan seemed to do any harm, but it was only enough to slow the enraged creature.

The Antivan chose to flank the juggernaut while it was distracted. Climbing up its back with reckless abandon, he pushed one of his daggers deep in its hide. The ogre roared and straightened in an attempt to shake him off, but the assassin managed to latch on with a second dagger, clinging to the hilts firmly. The beast howled again, reaching back with one massive hand while also pushing away Sten’s sword with the other. Zevran tensed, preparing himself to move higher, but then the monster staggered back, clutching its face in pain.

The assassin jumped off, barely avoiding the crushing weight as the ogre hit the ground dead, clenching its enormous hand around the Dalish arrow driven deep into its eye.

 Zevran took a deep calming breath before taking the time to observe the team. Sten was limping, but there was no visible wound. Alistair, however, was becoming terribly pale and the blood dribbled from under his armour to pool beneath his shaking form.

“Someone should see your arm, Warden,” said Zevran, approaching them. “You look like you are going to drop dead.”

He reached to the straps holding Alistair’s armlets in place, but the ex-templar shook off his hands.

 “Keep your hands to yourself, assassin,” he hissed, grimacing violently — both in pain and disgust. “It’s bad enough without you poisoning the wound.”

“I’m hurt,” Zevran rolled his eyes. “Here I am, nearly crushed under an ogre for your benefit, and I hear such cruel words in return.”

Alistair averted his gaze a bit, but his expression remained the same, muttering, “Only what you deserve.”

“Really, Alistair?” Mahariel approached quickly enough, a reprimand just as swiftly on his tongue, “That’s quite low of you.”

The young man knelt beside the second Warden and began taking off the armor as Zevran had intended. This time the human did not twitch. Fumbling with buckles, Tavaris raised shining, almond-shaped eyes at Zevran.

“You were amazing,” he breathed with what amounted to pure awe in his voice.

“In the end, it was you who put it down,” Zevran replied.

“I wouldn’t have managed if it weren’t for you,” Tavaris cast a disarming smile that struck Zevran dumb momentarily before he sobered again and focused on the task at hand.

 “Would you mind getting our horses, Zevran?” He asked more gruffly, and despite the polite manner, Zevran knew it was an order.

He nodded, “Of course. Do you need anything else?”

“Yes,” Mahariel smiled briefly, “I want you to bring our sacks here too.”

 The Antivan chuckled, starting to turn away.

“Your wish is my command.”

 “You must be kidding me,” Alistair interjected, clutching his arm just below bleeding wound. Zevran stopped mid-step. “I don’t want him to touch my horse, bag or bandages.”

Tavaris furrowed his brow and peered down at his Warden friend sharply, speaking in a hushed tone, “What in the Betrayer’s eyes is your problem?”

 “The assassin is my problem,” Alistair answered testily.

“He has a name, Brother,” Mahariel retorted harshly. Zevran mulled over the possible reasons why the Dalish would call his fellow Warden “Brother” only when he was really angry, “And he’s our companion and ally now. I won’t have that anymore.”

The ex-templar grimaced; Tavaris’ examinations seemed to become much less careful.

“He’s dangerous and he wanted to kill us. What’s going to stop him from murdering us now, when you let him share fire and food with us?” The older of the pair winced with every pull of the strap. He searched Tavaris’ eyes, almost frantic in his seriousness, “We won’t wake up one day and it will be because your infatuation with that elf.”

 “And what would I do with that?” Zevran questioned lightly, “Go back to Antiva and get killed anyway as an example for not killing you the first time? I’ll pass.”

 Alistair hissed as Tavaris squeezed the wound painfully — to Zevran’s eyes it didn’t look like a medical procedure.

“I need bandages and clean water, Zevran,” Tavaris said with a dangerous edge to his voice, “He’s going to bleed to death if you stand here and argue about your good intentions. Show them.” Then he turned back to the wounded man, his tone acrid. “I’m _elvhen_ too, if you hadn’t noticed it yet.”

Zevran only nodded curtly, feeling uneasy and a bit like a scolded child, as he headed to get their mounts.  He would not terribly mind Alistair bleeding to death, but they needed every Warden they had. And, more importantly, he did not feel like disobeying the Dalish.

“Just don’t leave my weapons in this corpse,” he stated before he left.

 

After the encounter with the ogre the atmosphere in the camp was heavy for the next few days.  Alistair healed quickly, aided both by insane amounts of elfroot and his own resilience, but Mahariel was uncharacteristically curt towards him, apparently still sour with his behavior after the battle. The tension between the Wardens made Leliana snappish too, which made Morrigan and Sten withdrew into their own corners of the camp, showing themselves only when it was necessary. In the grim company Zevran entertained himself by watching the elven Warden, who with him was pleasant enough, and coaxing stories out of him; which was unbelievably easy.

Skilled fighter he was, Tavaris Mahariel was an incredibly easy mark when it came to gaining trust. Zevran had a hard time to admit it, but it seemed that he had chosen absolutely the worst way to deal with the commission. Despite being a responsible and surprisingly charismatic leader, Tavaris was at the same time so wide-eyed and trusting that it would be enough for the assassin to enter his camp one evening and say he wanted to fight the Blight with him. The next day he would, for example, poison the food as the Alistair suggested he was still going to, and return to Antiva, his job completed.

It didn’t occur to him earlier because he couldn’t ever imagine someone so absurdly credulous. But now, as he heard their companions’ stories, he couldn’t really help rethinking his previous possibilities. Leilana joined them just by stepping forward and telling she wanted to. Sten — a murderer, as he discovered, and the kind that he actually was wary of (it was one thing to kill as a job, completely another to murder a whole family without even a good explanation) — was taken out of the cage because he promised to fight by the Warden’s side. Morrigan came with them because her mother told so — and running around with an apostate seemed a risky choice (however, in this particular case the Antivan suspected that it might had been even more unwise to deny Morrigan’s mother’s request). And then there was Zevran himself, accepted into the party after a freaking assassination’s attempt. Arainai felt like he entered some surreal dream realm and couldn’t wake up.

And now the boy was sitting right by him — looking quite deliciously, one might add, gray eyes wide and bright, golden hair shining in the light of the fire. His strong, tanned thigh flashed under the leather skirt and shapely lips gleamed alluringly, dampened with wine. The fact that young Dalish had no idea that he might be watched that way, only spiced the image in Zevran’s mind — who, without even realizing, apparently decided that the young man’s innocence wasn’t actually a deal breaker when it came to his seduction plan.

“I’m really sorry to be bothering you,” said Tavaris, shy smile on these innocent lips. “I’m just so excited to meet some of my own people… And I didn’t felt like talking to _shemlen_ about that. Or Sten. He’s… just weird.” He offered the flask of wine to Zevran.

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear friend. I am all ears.” He smiled charmingly, accepting the offer. “However, you might find that I am no better than _shemlen_ in this case. My whole life were the Crows.”

He didn’t even mention that he had a crawling suspicion that in the reality he wasn’t an elf, just elf-blooded, maybe in a second or third generation. Pure-blooded elves didn’t get such magnificent noses as his — though he had to admit, that the very elven line of Mahariel’s profile was attractive on its own.

“You don’t have a family?” Boy’s eyes widened in horror. The assassin laughed, genuinely amused.

“Oh, I had a mother once. She was even a Dalish, or so I was told. And I believe I must have some father, as she couldn’t conceive me without any help. But it really wasn’t a family to talk about.”

Tavaris brightened once again.

“Dalish? So of which clan you are? And… how did you end in the Anitva City?”

Zevran chuckled.

“Oh I’m afraid I can’t answer the first question. She was a whore, you see, and I was probably an accident. She died while giving me birth — my first victim as it would seem.”

“That’s awful,” whispered Tavaris, suddenly clutching his hand, like he wanted to give him some kind of assurance. Sweet, really. “May I ask… How did it happen?”

The Antivan laughed heartily.

“Oh, my dear boy. Usually it looks like that: a man and a woman, naked more or less…”

Tavaris reddened rapidly.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly. “What I wanted to ask was how she became a whore. We don’t… Clans don’t let our girls to end like that.”

“She run away with a woodcutter,” he shrugged. “It seems that the woodcutter wasn’t interested in taking care of the Dalish girl in a big city. Or maybe he had fallen ill and died — I’ve never managed to get the story straight. She ended up in debt and had to support herself anyway, and there weren’t many other jobs for someone like her around.”

The slender hand on his arm tightened emphatically. Its solid touch was weirdly at odds with the overall, almost child-like look. From a person with this kind of naivety and boyish appearance one would expect a soft skin and weak, womanly touch. Tavaris’ hand was, however, strong and callused from sword and bow, and his grip was pleasantly firm and reassuring — or it would be, if Zevran needed any kind of assurance.

He shouldn’t be amazed by this, really. He knew perfectly well, what Mahariel could do, and it wasn’t something one did on a first week after picking up a weapon. Still, he couldn’t help it.

“I really can’t tell you much more about her,” he said, surprising himself. “I knew, how she earned her pay and where did she come from, all of that from the other whores in the brothel I was growing in. And I had just one thing from her — a pair of gloves. They were of Dalish make, beautifully adorned. I used to take them out when I felt alone or scared and imagine the hands that wore them.” He looked at the younger man, suddenly aware of his babbling.

“But enough of that. I believe that you wanted to share something yourself?” He smiled, and it was again his usual, cocky grin.

“I’m not sure what,” admitted Tavaris, taking his hand back. The comforting feeling was gone. “Probably just that I feel strange outside the clan. And I really can’t understand what’s going on sometimes. Everything is so different now…”

“How?” Asked Zevran, genuinely interested. “I’ve never know this kind of life… Oh, maybe a three days, when I run away from the Crows as the foolish kid. I don’t know what the life in a clan is really like.”

“Close.” The Warden smiled, looking melancholic. “We’re very tight. We grow together and live together, sharing all joys and all fears. You’re never alone in the clan.”

Oh. That explained a lot.

“We could always count at each other,” the Dalish continued, his face suddenly saddened. “Until even our Keeper couldn’t help me anymore.”

“What happened?” Asked Zevran, who actually was wondering what made the boy leave his clan. You didn’t often meet a lone Dalish elf.

“The Taint happened,” answered the young man, pulling his knees towards his chin.

“Me and my good friend, Tamlen… We found _shemlen_ in the forest. They told us about the ruins. The ruins were weird, you see, _shem_ architecture filled with the artifacts of the old _Elvhenan_. And we’re keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the _Elvhenan_.” The distant tone suggested that the boy was repeating some old poem or ritual. His accent thickened too, as Mahariel stopped paying attention to it, and Zevran discovered he found the melodic lilt of it rather pleasant.

“Nevertheless, we thought, we should check it, see if there’s something our Keeper would be interested in. And well — the ruins were interesting enough. There were old statues of the Creators, elven decorations — very odd, because the architecture wasn’t elven at all. And in the last chamber we have reached… There was this _derem’i Fen’Harel_ mirror.”

“A mirror?” Zevran asked, rather surprised. He was expecting something more… ominous.

“Yes, a mirror.” Tavaris nodded. “It was magical, I have no doubt. Tamlen saw some images in it, was speaking about some city… I didn’t see much, just some weird glimpses. Tamlen… He was entranced. He actually touched the cursed thing.”

“The next thing I remember was Duncan, crouched over me. I was terribly sick, passed out for two days. When I woke up, I learnt that Tamlen was nowhere to be found. I went with Merril, our clan’s Keeper’s First, to search for him only to found that the ruins were overrun by the Darkspawn. We found Duncan there, also, who examined the mirror. It was tainted, you see, and somehow Tamlen had freed its Taint.”

He sighed, reaching for the wine flask and drinking deeply. He wasn’t looking at Zevran anymore; now his eyes were fixed on fire, full of sadness and longing so great that it was painful to watch. He swallowed and continued.

“And I was tainted too, and my Keeper couldn’t help me anymore. I wanted to stay, to die among my own people if I had to, but she wasn’t having it. Duncan took me away and made a Grey Warden — and it’s only reason I’m alive right now. But Tamlen... Tamlen was lost. And I still dream of him — he was like a brother to me. I suppose I have new brothers now.” He looked at the snoring form of Alistair, with an expression that was hard to decipher, but far from pleased. “But it’s not the same. And I don’t believe it could ever be.”

He looked at Zevran not a little bit embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, you must think I’m babbling,” he said, nervously fingering the stripe of the leather tunic, accidentally showing more of his sleek thigh. “I’ll probably should shut up now.”

“No, not at all. I’m happy to listen, if you want to talk, my dear friend.” He looked at the fire.

“However, I probably can’t really understand. I’ve never had a family, brothers included. Even friends… Let’s say that friendship isn’t something expected among the Crows.”

“No friends?” The Warden looked at him with sheer horror. “How could one live without friends?”

“Safely,” answered Zevran with a shrug. “Attachments are a weakness when you deal in death.”

The young elf still looked aghast, so Zevran added, without really thinking.

“Maybe I had one friend. But I don’t want to talk about it. Why don’t you tell me more about this Tamlen?”

“Oh.” Mahariel looked at him a little confused. “If you really want to listen… “He took another deep swing of wine. “Tamlen was… Well… He was brash and fast thinking, always first to fight and to go into danger. Very lively and always joking. I loved that about him. If you wanted to do something irresponsible — Tamlen was your man. He always complained that he wanted to see more, do more... He would be ecstatic to be at my place now.” The young elf chuckled quietly, a sad smile that made his sharp face brighten. “He had also beautiful voice — I could listen to him for hours when he sang. He was a good hunter, but never too good with a sword or dagger — but he probably didn’t know it, too scatterbrained to notice — when he lost during sparrings which we sometimes held, he would find a thousand reasons, except from his poor performance. But he was too good-natured to whine about that. In fact, the only thing I ever heard him complain…” He hesitated. “Never mind. He was a good friend.”

Zevran raised his brow. Tavaris’ soft, dreamy voice, suggested to him that this Tamlen wasn’t a “brother” to him, but something else entirely.

“He had beautiful eyes too. The deepest blue that I ever saw.”

Ooh, and here it is, thought the assassin. If this Tamlen wasn’t a crush, he was ready to cut off his arm. Well, figuratively speaking. He liked his arms as they were.

“So... You were close then,” concluded Zevran, watching the younger guy carefully. It was a good news — he probably won’t be repulsed, if he fancied men.

Tavaris nodded, cheeks flushed with wine.

“We were. But we had a little argument shortly before this… accident. I regret he died thinking, I was angry at him.”

His face was again solemn, as he drunk again. Zevran noticed, that each time he swallowed more and more. In this pace he’d soon be too drunk to stand.

“Probably we should speak about something else,” he suggested, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Much to his surprise, Tavaris not only nodded, but suddenly turned around and embraced him with a quiet sob. The assassin, taken aback, patted uncertainly the hunter’s back, having no idea, what had just happened and feeling slightly uncomfortable.

“You do realize,” he started hesitantly. “That you are hugging a man who tried to kill you, yes? About two weeks ago?”

Tavaris lifted his head, blinking incredulously. Grey, huge eyes were reddened from crying.

“But you won’t now, will you?”

Oh, my. The man was further gone than Zevran realized before. To the list of things he could use to finish the job earlier he added “terribly weak head”. He sighed.

“No, I won’t,” he admitted and the boy snuggled to him again like it made everything all right. Zevran rolled his eyes and hugged him awkwardly back. It was a complete mystery to him, how this fluffy ball of naivety managed to resemble a responsible man during the day. 

“Do you still have your gloves?” Asked a muffled voice from somewhere around his neck. Arainai needed a few seconds before he realized, what Tavaris was talking about.

“No. They were taken from me after I was sold to the Crows,” he answered. “Well, not right after, but they were discovered soon enough. We weren’t allowed such things.”

He felt awkward. He had absolutely nothing against physical intimacy with the Warden — he was hot, after all, and had a lots of charm — but it wasn't exactly the kind he was looking for. Honestly — he couldn't even say that he was ever hugged in this kind of way, without even a _suggestion_ of sex.

At least the hunter smelled really good. He must have been using some herbal substance, and its fresh aroma was all over his skin and hair.

“Sold?” The muffled voice had a shocked note to it, and Tavaris crawled even closer, effectively seating himself in Arainai’s lap.  Zevran felt the urge to kiss the younger elf and get him to his tent — it was something that he had experience at, contrary to this whole hugging-emotional thing — but he suspected that it might scare Mahariel away and, as it was his trust he needed most, he stayed as he was.

“For the whole three sovereigns, I was told,” he chuckled willing himself not to stiffen. “A really good price, as I was all skin and bones then, and couldn’t tell the pommel of the dagger from its pointy end.”

“It’s awful, Zevran,” said the young Dalish, even accenting his name properly. “I am sorry.”

The assassin sighed, patting his companion’s back.  There was no use in explaining that it wasn’t all bad or that Zevran didn’t have any hard feelings about it, so the only thing he said was:

“I’m fine.”

 

Mahariel fell asleep in his arms soon enough and Zevran was left with the awkward task of getting him back to his tent. In the meantime Alistair had woken up, and seeing the assassins problem, at first looked alarmed (oh yes, because Zevran would kill the boy in the middle of the camp, and then put him back to bed), then, understanding what really happened, chuckled lowly.

“Oh, he’s such a big kid sometimes,” he commented, making the elf raise his brows. Apparently he didn’t hold any grudge about Mahariel’s icy act in the last few days.

“And look who’s talking,” the Crow shot back without any rancor.

Finally, when the hunter was tucked safely at his bedroll and the camp was guarded by the human Warden, Zevran went to sleep himself, unsure what to make of the evening's conversation. He was slowly becoming used to Tavaris’ childlike trustfulness and openness.  Even to his contradictory nature: he was still amazed that the man who killed the ogre few days ago and the fragile boy he held tonight was the same person, but it didn't surprise him anymore. What was surprising and a bit disturbing were Zevran's own reactions to the Warden's naive — and kind — inquiries. He hadn't opened like that... Probably never. He hadn't said much, but his sudden willingness to share and craving for the reassurance — which he didn't need, of course — given by the slender boy's touch, were at least, dangerous. There was still a possibility that Tavaris wasn't as naive, as he seemed to be. He could be simply a better player than Zevran...

The Antivan didn't really feel convinced that Tavaris could be so cunning, but still, he had to keep this possibility in mind. It was better than letting himself to fall under the pretty boy's charm, when he was supposed to do exactly the opposite.

 


	4. Dalish amongst the Dalish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20th May 2017:  
> So, here we are, at the beginning of the Brecillian arc - which I edit furiously for some time now, and apparently, in me-speak 'to edit' means 'to add additional scenes that blow the chapters out of proportion'. So, here we have first of them. Enjoy.

In the morning Tavaris avoided him. It wasn’t easy in the little camp, but somehow the younger man managed it. And every time he looked at Zevran, he blushed, tips of his ears red as poppies. The assassin wondered, how much the Warden really remembered of their evening chat.

That was apparently doomed to stay a mystery as he urged everyone to hurry so persistently that they were on their way in no time. They turned from the road soon after they packed up the camp, travelling a narrow, sometimes almost invisible path into the forest. Arainai was absolutely sure he would get lost — and the rest of the company looked as much disoriented as he was. Mahariel, however, lead them confidently as if they were strolling through a wide road. Zevran found the thick, green canopy of the trees stifling, maybe slightly creepy and in the faces of the others and the lull of the conversations, he saw he wasn’t alone. Tavaris, on the other hand, was obviously excited, with his eyes shining so bright that Zevran started to quietly worry about possible fever causes.

Suddenly he pulled the reins of his horse and held one hand in the air.

“Get ready,” he whispered, jumping of the horse and putting an arrow in his bow. The rest followed suit, even if no one was sure what alarmed the elf exactly. Zevran was already ready to jump at the slightest rustle, but Mahariel didn’t seem to be prone to panic here.

“Darkspawn?” asked Leilana, whispering, but Alistair just shook his head. He looked as confused as the rest of them, as he looked around, trying to see anything in the lush greenery.

Suddenly an abnormally huge spider fell from the tree, but before it even touched the ground it was already pierced by an elven arrow, convulsing wildly and turning on its back.

Unfortunately, there was more of them. Six more huge beasts, not much smaller than their horses, attacked them from all the sides. Zevran fought his panic and revulsion down — he hated spiders, and those were guaranteed to visit his nightmares from this day on.

Three insects had fallen by Mahariel’s hand, who then calmly hung back his bow at the quiver and pulled his daggers, jumping at the closest monster’s back and slashing the animal viciously. Alistair and Leilana were fighting the next one together, the sixth was being frozen by Morrigan with some ice spell, Sten crushing the it's chitin with his enormous sword. And the seventh — Zevran turned around to look the monster straight into one of its eyes.

He slashed at the widely opened mandibles feeling a surge of horror —  he definitely preferred anything, including the Darkspawn, to that. His sword bounced uselessly back from the hard chitin, and he tried again, but the spider wasn’t affected much. It clicked its mandibles ominously at Zevran, and the assassin, suddenly aware of his impending demise, absently bemoaned the wasted opportunity of visiting the Pearl in Denerim and his fervent wish to be killed by something… less revolting.

Suddenly, at the spider’s back, something golden and brown appeared, and it jerked. The long, disgusting legs contracted, making the beast turn to the side, and Tavaris jumped of its rump in a graceful arc.

“You all right?” He asked, watching the assassin with worry. Now it was Zevran’s turn to feel ashamed.

“Well, yes, why not?” He answered, faking a cocky smile, though his insides felt like they were made of  very shaky jelly. “I’m just more of a city hunter, that’s all.”

The Dalish laughed, eyes shining bright. It seemed that he saw through his phony confidence, but there was no malice in his amusement.

“The chitin is pretty hard to pierce,” he said, showing the various weaknesses of the said armor. “But there are vulnerable points. And I particularly like this one.” He pointed at the one of them. “You pierce it deep enough, you cut their poison glands. It kills them in seconds. And it’s as easy to reach with a knife or sword as with an arrow.”

“I’ll try to remember,” Zevran promised, hoping deeply that it was the first and the last time he had to encounter anything like that.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Tavaris whispered, quietly enough to be heard only by the assassin. “These are nasty things.” He smiled warmly, putting briefly a hand on Zevran’s arm and turned back, already ordering calmly around. It was hard to believe that it was the same person who cried in his arms the evening before.

Zevran started to get a ridiculous suspicion that Mahariel the Warden kept Tavaris the Kid in his pocket and pulled him out in the evenings to act as a decoy, when he snuck out to do whatever adult Dalish did with their evenings.

Once he was sure no one was seriously wounded, Mahariel knelt by one of the carcasses, putting a hand between the mandibles. Zevran was aware, that the arachnid was dead — still, it made his stomach churn. There was a sickening sound of tearing and hunter pulled his hand out of the beast’s… jaws... holding proudly his prize. He tossed it in the assassin’s direction who reflectively caught slimy, disgusting organ.

“The poison gland,” the younger elf explained, seeing the horrified expression of the Antivan. “I thought you could have some use for it.”

“Yes, I probably would,” answered the assassin reluctantly. He knew, of course, what he was holding — as an apprentice he had to extract his share from these. But these he remembered were usually… drier. And, most importantly, Zevran wasn’t a witness of their obtaining. Still…

“Would you mind helping me with extraction later?” He asked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever worked with a gland so fresh.”

Tavaris beamed.

“But of course,” he agreed, looking genuinely glad. “It would be my pleasure.”

Kinky, thought Zevran sourly. In his most perverted dreams he never imagined that extracting poison from the spider’s gland could be described as a “pleasure”. Even when the organ was suitably dried and cleaned it was rather nasty job — this thing, slippery and covered in goo, made in seem positively nightmarish.

He searched his things and found a piece of cloth, big enough to wrap the slimy body part. Mahariel waited for him to finish, a kind look in his eyes, before he motioned them to go.

“We’ll almost there,” said the young ranger suddenly, after twenty minutes or so. Zevran had no idea what made the Warden so sure — rest of their team, with the exception of Morrigan, looked as confused as he was. Tavaris was, however, right. They managed to get just a few steps when suddenly three elves showed up from behind the trees. For Zevran it looked like they just had appeared from the thin air, but Tavaris wasn’t surprised.

“ _Andaran atish'an, Lethallan,_ ” he said with a smile to the huntress who seemed to be a leader of the Dalish party. The woman smiled friendly.

“ _Andaran atish'an, Lethallin_ ,” she said raising her hand in greeting. “You seem to be far away from home, cousin. How can we help you?”

The Warden and the two hunters exchanged quick greetings when she spoke.

“I came on behalf the Grey Wardens. I’d like to speak with your Keeper, if that’s possible.”

“Grey Wardens?” There was a flicker of surprise in the huntress eyes, but she nodded. “Of course, I’ll take you to him. And that explains your weird party, I suppose.” She smiled tightly, looking at Zevran, then Sten, the grimace noticeably less friendly than the smiles she gave Mahariel. Zevran was under an impression that the woman purposefully ignored all the humans.

Tavaris smiled — a bit shyly.

“I need all the help I can get, be that _shemlen_ or qunari. The Blight hurts us all.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed, but there was some reluctance in her voice. “I’ll take you to our Keeper… But you might find out you won’t like what you’ll hear.”

Tavaris looked at her questioningly, but she just shook her head.

“No use standing here. Let’s go.”

They hadn’t to walk long until they entered the camp. The  _aravellas_  were scattered between the trees in a seemingly chaotic fashion, but Zevran had a feeling that there was some order to that, despite of the first impression it gave. There were a few fires by which sat the elves, eating, working and sharing stories. As they entered the camp, conversations faded. The elvish eyes followed them and Zevran knew, they were assessed. But it seemed that some of the Dalish had good feelings about at least part of their party — two young girls, their faces still a little bit swollen under very fresh tattoos, were leaning to each other, looking at Tavaris, whispering and giggling quietly. The assassin wasn’t surprised — they probably rarely seen young men from other clans and novelty was always attractive. Tavaris was a fine looking lad despite his height and, as Zevran just noticed, upon entering the camp he changed a bit. Some stiffness, the assassin didn’t realize was there, disappeared and now the young elf — always graceful — was moving with an ease of a cat, silent and relaxed. Zevran had to agree with the girls, it was sexy as hell.

The elven Warden ignored the girls completely, following the huntress towards the middle of the camp. In a hushed voice he asked her something in elvish — only now Zevran realized how much of their conversation on the forest path was a courtesy toward him and the rest of their company — she answered the question silently shaking her head and Tavaris somehow managed to look sad and satisfied with the answer at the same time. The state of the camp seemed to trouble him though, and looking around Zevran noticed the probable source of his worry — there seemed to be a big infirmary — hidden from the sight by a few  _aravellas_  but obviously not well enough. A quick approximation made the Antivan sure that it must have been almost a third of the clan lying there — or even more. A little wonder that they weren't overly friendly (not that the welcoming nature was a well-known Dalish trait).

The Keeper was a bald man of an age that was difficult to determine. Something about him made Zevran dislike him immediately — and it wasn't even his initial rudeness, which was understandable given the circumstances. It was something deeper, something in his manner of speaking and his posture. Or maybe just the fact that he started to speak elvish, ignoring everyone except the Dalish. Mahariel, however, answered consistently in King’s Tongue, finally forcing the Keeper to speak in a language which was understandable for everyone in their group.

The old elf dismissed the news of the Blight, saying he already sensed it’s corruption and wanted to take the immobile clan north. The treaties weren't any surprise for him too, but he plainly refused to deliver.

“This might require some explanation,” he told Mahariel, inviting him to follow. The gesture was obviously meant for the Dalish man alone, but Zevran chose to ignore that and went with them, close at the Warden’s heels. Morrigan hadn’t hesitate a moment too, joining them in a walk through the camp. After them, the rest followed as well. The Keeper, Zathrian, scowled for a second seeing the bunch of outsiders trailing behind him, but Tavaris hadn’t noticed that grimace — not a big surprise. This time he could be excused though, as he looked at the infirmary with terror written all over his face. It must have been shocking for him to see so many of his people in a obviously terrible pain, Zevran reflected. He himself wasn’t moved much, but Mahariel did mention how close-knit the Dalish were, not even accounting for the empathy the assassin learned to recognize as one of the Warden’s dominating traits.

The Crow put his hand on Tavaris’ arm, reflexively trying to calm him down, which earned him a brief, grateful look. In the tense setting of the young man’s shoulders he saw clearly that only a tremendous effort of will saved the Warden from clinging to the Antivan in a search of any solace. The boy was almost addicted to the physical comfort, Zevran thought, and for some absurd reason he seemed to be his first choice for it.

“The clan entered Brecilian forest a month ago, as is our custom when we come in this part of Ferelden,” Zathrian explained. “We are always wary of the dangers of the forest. But we did not expect that the werewolves were lying in a wait for us. They… ambushed us, and through we drove the beasts back, much damage was done. Many of our warriors lie dying as we speak. Even with all our magic and healing skill, we’re eventually forced to slay our brothers to prevent them from becoming beasts. The Blight is evil and must be stopped. But we’re in no position to uphold our obligations. I am truly sorry.” The Keeper bowed his head slightly, as Tavaris clenched his fists.

“It’s decided then,” said Alistair, suspiciously cheerful. “We won’t get any help here, we have to go somewhere else.” Their young leader shot him murderous glance.

“You must have gone mad,” he answered through clenched teeth and turned to the Keeper. “We will help, as much as we can,” he promised solemnly.

Zevran groaned inwardly, disappointed, but not really surprised. From what he gathered so far Mahariel was too gentle of a soul to go by such suffering without trying to help. Especially when it were his people in need. The assassin couldn't be fooled — he saw already how deeply Mahariel cared for the Dalish and how heartbroken he was about leaving them. He just hoped that Zathrian wouldn't accept outsiders’ help.

He wasn't so lucky.

“Maybe. The affliction is a curse that runs rampant in their blood, bringing great agony and then eventually either death or transformation into something monstrous. The only thing that could help them must come from the source of curse itself. And that… that would be no trivial task to retrieve.”

“I’m listening.” The Mahariel determination was obvious — and foolish. It looked like no Blight, no dying earl could stop him from running to the forest to get to the curse’s source — or die trying. His deep sense of community became suddenly a very dangerous characteristic.

“Within the Brecilian forest dwells a big wolf. We call him Witherfang. It was within him that curse originated, and through his blood it has been spread. If he is killed and his heart brought to me perhaps I’ll be able to destroy the curse, but the task has proven too dangerous for us.”

“You must be kidding,” interrupted Morrigan. “I can't believe that I agree with the fool, but you don’t really mean to run as some errand boy for them?” she said. “Not only is that an unnecessary delay, but also, if they really can’t kill a wolf, you really don’t need them. What help could they be?”

Mahariel’s pretty, grey eyes became steely and unrelenting.

“Even if they wouldn't be able to help, I won’t refuse to come to their aid. We’re last of the _Elvenhan_ , and so it’s my duty and moral obligation to help my brothers in peril. None of you has to come with me.”

“Your duty and moral obligation is to face the Archdemon, Tavaris.” Alistair suddenly became stiff, hard look appearing in his eyes. “Also, to gather as much help in this fight as you can. Not fighting the werewolves in the middle of Brecilian.”

“First and foremost I’m Dalish, not a Warden,” spat Mahariel. “I agreed to join the order only because clans are in danger too and I won’t shun this obligation, but my first responsibility is to my people. You’re not my people, Brother.”

Alistair winced, looking hurt. Zathrian listened to the argument with impenetrable expression.

“I don’t want to stand in a way of your obligations, Warden,” he said quietly. “But if we could stop the curse before it ruins our clan, we might be able to help. Call the others at the very least.”

“You see,” Tavaris turned to Alistair with a hint of satisfaction. “We’ll get the help _the Wardens need_ if we aid them.”

He looked back to Zathrian, his face solemn. “You see that I bear the mark of Andruil and you doubt I’ll go hunting for you? I followed  _Vir’Tanadhal_  my whole life,  _Hahren_ , and that’s not going to change now. I'll accept any help, but it's not any condition nor price.”

The Templar looked unimpressed. Zevran wasn’t convinced either, but it was clear to him that the matter was decided and Mahariel intended to keep his word. They could either let him brave the forest alone or offer help. Zevran had all the reasons to seem helpful.

“You won’t have to go alone, my Warden,” he promised, squeezing gently the younger elf’s arm. “You can count on me”. He just hoped that this promise  wouldn’t mean he was going to end chewed up by some giant critter in the next few days.

The deeply grateful look on the hunter’s face was oddly rewarding, though.

“I need to know more,” Mahariel turned back to Zatharian, demanding details. Zatharian shared what he knew — which wasn’t much… Or so it seemed. Something rubbed Zevran the wrong way here, but he couldn't really pinpoint the problem. He had only this annoying feeling that there was something very wrong somewhere there and the Keeper was fully aware that he was keeping it from them.

“I’ll make it right,  _Hahren_ ,” promised finally Tavaris, his eyes soft and warm again.

_“Ma’serannas_ , hunter. May your arm never tire and your arrows fly straight.”

 

They were shown a place where they were allowed to camp — thankfully, close to a stream, though Zevran suspected it was mostly a courtesy towards Mahariel. After a deeper consideration, though, the mere fact that they were still breathing and allowed to stay there at all, seemed to be only due to the hunter’s presence. The assassin heard many horror stories about people who strayed too close to Dalish camps in Antiva — he had no reason to suspect those elves to be much more merciful, especially when in such vulnerable position.

He wasn’t worried for himself _much._ He was a flat-ear, after all, and the Dalish were known for being much more lenient for their city-dwelling brethren than for the others. There was this short period he spent in a camp before realizing that he didn’t like forests much and before his masters found him — which was a silent relief, though he never admitted as much.  He got there and lived. And Master Lavir, probably chosen from the ranks for the virtue of being elf himself, got there and lived too. Their party was composed mostly of humans now, however. And Zevran wasn’t so sure all the Dalish were as precise with their bows as Mahariel — so maybe he was a little bit anxious about himself as well.  

After they set the camp the elf in question treated them to a long lecture about proper behavior around the Dalish camp, which could be summed up to few simple rules: treat all the religious figures around with respect, not leave their designated space without a very good reason, and don’t harass the women under any circumstances. Or, better yet, don’t interact with them at all, especially the younger ones. For some reason this last command was accompanied by a pointed look toward Zevran who just smiled lasciviously at Mahariel.

“Why should I need to chase skirts when I have such a fine man ordering me around?” He purred. The hunter got flustered, as it was to be expected and disappeared quickly in the forest after they finished their preparations for the night. Apparently ‘stay here’ rule didn’t apply to him.

Zevran took out the tools he managed to grab in Denerim and his quickly evaporating collection of poison ingredients. He set his portable laboratory some distance away from the tents — close enough to adhere to the rules outlined by Tavaris, but yet far enough to keep the rest from inhaling any unpleasant fumes. He had to brew a few poisons for the current use, extract and concentrate the poison from the gland for later and figure out what supplies he needed and could get from the Dalish or from the forest itself.

There was also a pressing issue of the flasks available, as even though he tried to recycle the containers it was inevitable for some to break or get destroyed by vicious substances he carried with him. His reserve was getting low, and that was a huge problem: these were tools of his trade.

He put off extracting the poison from the gland — the task most unpleasant of the all he had to finish — instead working on the fresh mixtures, crafted in a way that should be deadly to the beings inhabiting the forest. He avoided any local ingredients, choosing instead ones the Brecilian dwellers wouldn’t develop an immunity to.  And acids. Acids were almost always effective, though they required very careful handling.

Silently, he mourned his old poison chest, filled with quality tools, powders worth a small fortune and rows and rows of safe holds sized perfectly to hold the delicate glass of vials he used.  His current toolset was jarringly lacking.

 

Mahariel came back some time later, in a flurry of golden hair and soft smiles. He was carrying a box under his arm and his expression was oddly satisfied when he placed it next to Zevran.

“I talked to Lanaya and Varathorn,” he breathed out. It didn’t tell Zevran much. “The supplies are scarce, but they agreed to part with some… I thought you might need some tools and these…” He faltered, opening the box, showing Zevran rows of little vials. Some were empty, some filled with substances Zevran could recognize at the first sight. There was a decent supply of deathroot, some Mafareth’s tears, traitor’s breath… Some were more uncommon and the assassin fell silent for a moment, eyes skirting through the labels on the vials.

“It took so long because Lanaya took her time to rewrite the labels in Kings Tongue…” He trailed off, seeing that the Antivan wasn’t answering. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first.”

He was upset, his accent rolling thickly off his tongue, as he made a move to close the box. Zevran shook of his surprise and looked up at the young hunter.

“No, no, no!” He protested. “That’s perfect. I’m just... I don’t know what to say, that’s all.”

It felt oddly like a gift, but the assassin pushed the odd feeling down. It wasn’t a gift. It was a necessary investment if Tavaris wanted him to be useful. The fact he took time and effort to try and anticipate his needs was nice, and definitely something Zevran wasn’t used to, but he reasoned that the hunter simply decided to show his appreciation for the support he gave him before.

It was all in the realm of understandable.

Tavaris let a loud breath out, eyes shining with relief.

“That’s good. I mean… I wasn’t sure what you need and…” He blushed slightly. “But! I have one more thing for you.”

He jumped to his feet and run to his luggage with spring in his step. Arainai watched him slightly bewildered.

The young man came back in moments, clutching a bundle wrapped in a rabbit fur. He offered it to the assassin, who unwrapped it reluctantly. There was a silver bar of a decent size inside. Not a big treasure, but enough to keep him well-fed and equipped for a few weeks, should he decide to stray from the group. Not that he planned to in the near future.

He looked up at Mahariel, trying to voice his question. He didn’t have to.

“I was thinking about what you told me yesterday,” the young man said, growing shy again. “Not that I remember it very clearly, but some things… well, stuck out for me. I needed some time to process it… but…” He bit his lip. “I remember you said you were bought and that you never knew a different life. And… I don’t want you to think of yourself as a slave or anything like that. So, here’s the payment for your services. Should you take it and go your way, it’s fine, but if you want to stick around… Well, we don’t have much money now, but I’ll try my best to get you fairly compensated.” He stuttered when he spoke and looked away several times. “I hope you’ll find this arrangement reasonable,” he finished finally.

Zevran looked at the silver for a moment, not really grasping what Mahariel was saying. Finally, it hit him. He was a free man — or at least as free as one could be when they had Crows hounding their steps. Tavaris Mahariel was both granting and acknowledging it. And Zevran wasn’t really sure what to make of this revelation.

The young man was getting nervous again when Zevran looked up from the silver that seemed to symbolize so much.

“More than reasonable,” he agreed, as he didn’t know what else he could say. Then, to ward off any uneasiness left, he asked with a crooked smile. “Now, I believe you offered to give me a hand with this vicious thing,” he gestured at the spider gland. “Is that offer still on a table?” 

 


	5. Reach and flexibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21th May 2017: 
> 
> So, this one is definitely E-rated. **If you want to skip the smut, it's separated from the rest by the horizontal lines, both at the beginning and at the end. There are parts that are slightly steamy before (some heavy kissing and start of undressing), but I thought that the dialogue there was important enough to count it in the main body of the chapter - no dicks in this part, tho :D.** I hope it works for you. 
> 
> Also, a language note: for elvish I use available resources, like Project Elvhen or a translator tool on lingojam or even the wikia - but when I have doubts or want something that wasn't covered anywhere, I let my imagination loose. For Antivan... Well, I use Spanish as a base, but since I don't know a single word in Spanish and shamelessly rely on translators and dictionaries... Just keep in mind. This isn't Spanish. This is Antivan. That's my excuse XD
> 
> As for the changes: the part that leads to sex is heavily reworked, the smut itself too, and the discussion... Well, it might be easier to say that I hadn't left a stone unturned in this chapter. Let me just speak in numbers: while the first version of this chapter was below 5k words, this one counts 7,6k. So...  
> ..well, enjoy :D

The spider’s gland was vile and after they finished getting the precious poison out both Zevran and Tavaris were covered in gunk. Mahariel demanded a bath with a disgusted expression and Zevran was far from protesting. He could stand a little dirt, but this was absolutely repulsing.

The younger man stepped into the camp proper to fetch something — from the circle of fire the assassin could hear the appalled shouts of their companions when the hunter barged between tents almost dripping with smelly goo — Zevran didn’t wait for him to come back; he was eager to get out of his own, ghastly, clothes and scrub away the awful film of gore that seemed to cover him in the most impossible places. For all he cared, he could stride back to the camp naked; he had nothing to be ashamed for — and Alistair’s reaction to seeing another man’s penis might prove to be entertaining on its own right.

He undressed and got into cold water, cursing under his breath the awful fereldan weather. The stream was freezing — even more so in the deeper spot at its curve that was the most suitable place for bathing.

Zevran painfully missed hot baths.

A loud splash of water announced Mahariel, who drove into it head first and now was snorting loudly and shaking his head, sending icy droplets straight at the assassin. Zevran was so caught up in his misery he missed the moment the younger man undressed and now he was mentally kicking himself for it.

Mahariel stopped, raising his head and looking at the Antivan with an amused expression.

“You’d be warmer if you moved, you know,” he quipped. His wet hair glittered in the moonlight.

There was a wisdom to that, Arainai was sure, but he felt already frozen in place.

“I’ll just wash quickly and get to the fire,” he answered, his teeth chattering too much to muster his usual wit. Tavaris somehow managed to shrug.

“Suit yourself. If you moved you’d see the water is actually pleasant.”

Zevran highly doubted it.

The only thing he regretted as he escaped the freezing Pit of the stream, was that despite bathing with the young man he somehow managed to completely miss seeing him naked.

 

Zevran returned to the campfire shaking and ducked straight into his tent to get dressed — completely forgetting about his plan to scar Alistair for life. He came back wearing both of his changes of clothes and his thick, double coat at once. It wasn’t a dashing look he usually aimed for, but he was too cold to care anymore.

Tavaris came back a while later. He apparently took a chance to snatch a few things for himself too as he was in the Dalish camp, as he was wearing a flowing tunic of a triangular, elven cut and a pair of knee-long, form fitting leggings made of soft leather.

While the assassin was going to miss the tantalizing flashes of skin beneath the leather skirt of an armor, he had admit that it was much better look on the young man than the ill-fitting shirt and skirt he grew used to.

Mahariel fitted himself on a log next to Zevran and reached out to the fire to get his dinner. The fresh herbal scent the Antivan caught several times already was much stronger now. The assassin found it pleasant; a nice counterpoint to the hearty smell of fire and food.

He was getting warmer, the stew was decent and there was certain pleasantness in having a nice smelling, firm body lodged at his side, so Zevran felt pretty content. At some point he discarded the coat and one of his shirts and leaned into the warmth of the fire, absently listening to the conversation.

As if in direct opposition, as the evening progressed, Mahariel’s mood — positively chipper during their struggle with the slippery poison gland and the freezing bath — soured gradually. After a while Zevran nudged him gently.

“You look tense, my dear Warden,” he said quietly. It wasn’t like he particularly cared. Maybe just a little. Tavaris had a pleasant laugh and was much more relaxing company when he was relaxed himself. And, also, there was the non-trivial matter of getting into his good graces and being a stress-reliever was something Zevran absolutely aced.

Mahariel shook his head slightly, then sighed in defeat.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… It’s been too late when we arrived to start the trek into the deep forest and everyone needs to rest… But…” He faltered, nudging a burning twig with a stick. “People are sick and they’re dying and we’re sitting here, joking around. I know we can’t do anything _right now_ , but still, it doesn’t sit well with me.”

Leliana paused mid-sentence, breaking a story she was telling — something about Orlesians and their courtly customs; bizarre, even if she painted it as a pinnacle of culture.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Tav. I haven’t thought about it this way.”

The young man shrugged. “’Tis fine. A distraction isn’t a bad thing, it’s just… I guess the _shem_ ideas of politeness aren’t doing it for me.”

Zevran smirked. “Distraction? That I can do, my dear Warden. How would you like to hear about one of my most ridiculous missions? It happened when I was a lad fresh from the training, and convinced that the world belongs to me, even if I didn’t have skills to back it up — contrary to the present day, as I must impress.”

There was a flicker of interest in Mahariel’s eyes so Zevran launched into terribly embellished, absurd tale involving two naked merchants, a goat and a parrot. It seemed to help a bit and Tavaris was smiling slightly at the end of it, so Zevran followed with a story about Taliesen mistaking a lord’s privy with his alcove. And then another, about a misplaced ring and a lost poison vial. Then, finally, about that one mage who almost made him look like a fool in his Masters’ eyes, but had enough tact to break her neck on the carriage steps.

As the stories turned increasingly raunchy, their companions started to slowly leave the fire. First it was Alistair, who escaped, ducking into his tent with an embarrassed expression. Sten seemed slightly bored and annoyed when left next, without even saying goodnight. Leliana, actually interested, stayed the longest, if one didn’t count Morrigan, who sat by her own fire — in a hearing distance, but far enough for the conversation to not distract her from her reading.

Tavaris was blushing furiously, drinking from the wineskin way too fast, when one took his light head into account, so the assassin changed the subject smoothly, vividly describing the glorious Antiva City and the best things he was able to experience as a successful Crow. He carefully avoided the topics that were sore for him, would reveal too many secrets or could be upsetting for the sheltered Dalish, instead focusing on the splendour, on exotic fruits, fine wines and the taste of prawn and oyster soup in a port tavern. When he mentioned the smell of tanneries he stopped, catching himself on sharing something much more personal than he intended.

Fortunately, it worked. Mahariel was looking at him, completely bewitched, having completely forgotten about his troubles. His eyes brimmed with sheer awe, which would be charming enough on its own… But there was also this odd intensity that made the assassin shiver. The fact that the Warden probably didn’t even know how his companion might react to such a gaze, somehow made it even more tantalizing. Finally, Zevran decided he had exhausted the subject. The further musings about Antiva were too private to share, and his own mood was getting just weird, so he took a long sip of wine before passing it to Tavaris.

“You know, the Crows aren’t so bad. They expect effects, but when you deliver, you get whatever you want. Wine, men, women — whatever you fancy. It’s the severance package that is crap,” he smiled, and the young Warden paused for a moment, drinking offered alcohol.

“And what do you fancy, Zevran?” He almost choked, realizing what he just said and blushed deeply. “I mean…” His words came out heavy with his accent when he tried to correct himself. “Is there anything you want for yourself? In the future?”

Zevran smirked, sensing the opening. He avoided that particular topic earlier, in attempt to not scare the young elf with premature advances, but he definitely wouldn’t let the occasion pass. Even now, the man was distressed and tired after the taxing day and Zevran knew no better cure for this ailment than bodily pleasures. He just hoped that Tavaris won’t be too skittish after the wine and the stories.

“Oh, I fancy many things!” He said, looking intensely at the Warden, licking slowly his lower lip and leaning slightly towards him. “I fancy things that are beautiful and strong, I fancy things that are exciting and dangerous… Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

“But… I’m a man,” Tavaris answered, his eyes wide.

The assassin laughed, but stopped abruptly noticing the sudden stiffness of the Warden’s back. Not good.

“Oh… you are speaking seriously, aren’t you?” He asked. He suspected Tavaris was a virgin, and he was also almost positive, that he was a  _gay_  virgin. But then… Could he really misread the signs? In such a disastrous way?

“Oh, I do forget this is not the Antiva City. We are… a little more open-minded about such things, where I hail from. Is this something I should beg pardon for?”

“No… I just… I was surprised. I didn’t know… think…,” answered the Warden, his cheeks charmingly flushing again. Zevran decided that the blush nicely emphasized subtle lines of Tav’s  _vallasin_.

“Pleasantly, I hope.” Zevran smiled at him, placing discreetly a hand on his knee — ready to take it back in a second, should the gesture be taken wrong. It was a gamble, but the assassin felt he couldn’t wait for another opportunity. That weird feeling came back, nagging, and now he craved a distraction for himself. He had to be smart, though, so he decided to answer the almost forgotten question. “As for what I’ll do in the future, presuming that there is one… I truly can’t imagine.”

The hunter didn’t move back, looking at the assassin entranced. Zevran thought it was a good sign; not to mention that the young hunter looked delightfully with his shining eyes, lips moistened with wine and so deeply focused on the assassin himself as if the world around them could cease to exist. He gently shifted his hand, brushing carefully against the hunter’s thigh. The soft leather of Tavaris’ leggings was silken to the touch.

“It might be interesting to go into a business for myself, for a change — far from Antiva, of course. For now, naturally, I go where you go.”

And would be it your tent by any accident? He wondered, feeling the strong muscles flexing slightly under his hand. Tavaris looked at him, all tense, breathing deeply. He licked his lips involuntarily, and that, in combination with Tav’s widened pupils, told Zevran all he had to know.

“Well, enough of this chit-chat.” He said, pulling closer to the Warden. “Talking about the Crows summons them — every child in Antiva knows that.”

The young elf looked at Zevran unsure, but when he cupped his chin and kissed the warm lips it took only few seconds before the hunter wrapped arms around his neck, returning the kiss awkwardly. Oh, this boy has lots to learn, Zevran thought, but decided it didn’t really matter. Tavaris’ lips were so perfectly… kissable that he could lose himself just in that, if he allowed himself this kind of recklessness. He tasted like wine and some odd, but really pleasant herb; both spicy and fresh at the same time.

Zevran slid his hands in the mass of the ridiculously long, golden hair, cradling the Warden’s head as the kiss continued, getting more and more refined with every passing moment. Tavaris was inexperienced, without doubt, but he picked up things quickly.

Leiliana, seated at the other side of the fire, took a deep breath and suddenly frowned, seeing Zevran kiss the Warden, but fortunately she stopped herself from making any louder sounds that might scare young elf. Odd, he didn’t think she would have any problem with that, given that she mentioned being a bard in the past, not to mention her Orlesian roots. It was better to not push his luck, though, so he stood slowly up, pulling Tavaris with him, and slowly manoeuvred him towards the hunter’s tent, not breaking the kiss for a second.

His hands roamed younger man’s sides, sneaking under the light tunic. The triangular shape of it meant that there wasn’t much fabric to hinder the access to the skin; a fact for which Zevran was grateful. The younger elf seemed unsure, what he should do, so Zevran put gently his hands on fastenings of his own shirt, slowly caressing his young lover’s body, waiting for him to relax. The Warden shivered, as Zevran broke the kiss and moved his mouth lower, kissing Tavaris’ jaw, then moving to the ear. In the meantime his own shirt fell open so the assassin shrugged it off, then relieved the hunter of his tunic, revealing Mahariel’s slender, strongly muscled body.

He stopped nibbling on the partner’s ear for a moment, to look at him, and was surprised to see that he was wrong about the boy’s tattoos. The elaborate patterns were covering both sides of his torso, disappearing under the leather of the still worn leggings. There were scars too, quite a number of them, each one a mark of strength and character, each one highlighting the graceful lines of the sculpted body.

“Such an exquisite view, my friend,” he murmured into the caressed ear, to be rewarded by yet another blush. It was weirdly arousing to see how Tavaris reacted to the compliments, so he breathed into the sensitive ear, adding:

“Exquisite and most tempting…”

He wasn’t disappointed, as the hunter flushed once again, this time reaching for his head and pulling him decisively into another kiss. Zevran purred, feeling Tavaris’ lips part hungrily, and let his tongue slip into the wanting mouth. It looked like the Dalish was entirely ready to get rid of his virginity, even if that eagerness was slightly amplified by the wine.

Alarmed by this realization, he pulled apart for a moment, studying his partner’s face. As much as unpleasant the idea of stopping was, Zevran wasn’t going to rape his partner when he was too intoxicated to fully consent to their activities.

Thankfully, the hooded eyes that looked up at him, while slightly hazy, were lucid enough.

“You sure of this?” Zevran breathed out quietly, just to stay on the safe side. Tavaris inhaled deeply, his nostrils narrowing. For a second he looked confused, then slightly angry, then, finally, he gave Zevran a bashful smile.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I mean.. I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing… But I don’t want to stop.”

The assassin chuckled quietly, catching his lips again in a tender peck.

“That’s good enough,” he promised between the kisses. “I’ll show you everything you need to know.”

 

* * *

 

Blindly but deftly he undressed his lover completely, exploring the firm lines of his body with the both hands. Tavaris was lightly built, with an exception of his wide shoulders, but his muscles were strong and wiry, giving him absolutely gorgeous nimbleness. It was an odd thing that no one else loved such a beautiful man before, Zevran thought, feeling like he just discovered a hidden treasure trove.

He kissed lightly the hunter’s chin, then moved down the neck and below, stopping at the elf’s chest, tracing circles around his hardening nipples. He nibbled lightly at one of them and was rewarded by a low moan, his young lover’s body pressing into his caresses. Happy with the result he repeated that on the second nipple, stroking the first one gently with his hand, and brushed down the buttocks with a second, pushing him gently on the bedroll.

Tavaris writhed under the touch, giving up to the pleasure, already aroused. Zevran sighed with content, moving his lips lower, and kissing soft skin of the hunter’s abdomen, his cheek — not accidentally — teasing his cock. It could be even more pleasant than he expected, after all, with Tavaris so receptive to his actions.

Much to his surprise, when he moved his kisses to the Warden’s pelvis, the man moaned, and asked quietly:

“What should I do?”

Zevran chuckled against his skin, making the younger man tremble.

“For now — let me do my job,” he whispered, licking slowly the base of Tavaris’ cock. The hunter complied, sighing loudly, and the assassin continued, caressing young man’s balls, and massaging his well-shaped ass.   

He was fully aroused himself, and his own shaft longed for touch, but he wanted to carefully attend his lover's needs first — it was Tavaris who was just losing his virginity, after all, and while Zevran was far from fetishizing that unfortunate state of being, he strongly believed that, if possible, the first sexual experiences should be treated with care. After all, he wanted Tavaris to want to repeat that encounter.

And it seemed that he would, as he reacted to his every touch, his whole body begging for more and more, when the assassin licked along the hunter’s shaft, slowly teasing, kissing its tip with a maddening softness, wrapping his tongue around it… The Warden gasped quietly when Zevran lapped quickly at the slit of his cock, and the Antivan discovered that he was deeply enjoying the show.

Fascinated with the hunter’s reactions, the assassin swallowed the whole length without a slightest warning.

Tavaris arched, hands clutched at his bedroll and groaned loudly. Zevran heard distantly a feminine chuckle from the outside, but the Warden was too far gone to notice such things.

He slowly moved his lips upward, to the very tip, and then swallowed again, repeating this over and over, watching with pleasure as Tavaris buckled and groaned, eyes closed and the lips parted lustfully. He was almost ready to move forward, getting impatient himself, with his own cock throbbing almost painfully, when Tavaris tensed without a warning and climaxed into Zevran’s throat with a soft cry.

That was disappointing, the assassin thought swallowing, but then he shouldn’t expect anything else. The young man just got his first blowjob — it was already commendable that he lasted as long as he did.

He pulled off, resigning himself to a necessity of a quick wank in his own tent, when Tavaris pulled him up again, searching for his lips and moaning quietly when he tasted his own release in Zevran’s kiss.

Despite his orgasm, he was still rock hard, the Crow realized as the younger elf buckled his hips, searching for the sensations. A sudden epiphany hit him hard and he laughed quietly in delight.

“So that Warden stamina is no legend, yes?” He purred into the graceful ear and got rewarded with another bashful smile that instantly morphed into ecstasy, when their cocks finally met and the Antivan moved a little, applying some delightful friction before he grasped both of them with one hand, stroking them together. He slid the second hand down Tavaris’ side, making the younger elf whimper, and squeezed gently one of the round, soft buttocks, rolling on his back and pulling the Warden on the top.

He was completely content to bring them both to completion like that, not wishing to put a strain on his young partner. Even if Tavaris could go for much longer, there was no need to demand more before he was ready. Simple pleasures were good too.

Tavaris surprised him once again. He broke the kiss, nosing at Zevran’s collarbone and panting loudly, then, after nibbling at the skin there, he raised his head and looked into assassin’s eyes with a determination.

“Let me try too,” he asked, already slithering lower on the Crow’s body, following the curvy lines of his tattoos with his mouth.

Zevran relaxed, never the one to deny such a request, entangling hands carefully in the Warden’s hair (he decided that he definitely loved this hair) and letting the hunter gingerly kiss his skin, mimicking his previous actions. The light kisses and touches were maddening, but Zevran succumbed to the caresses patiently, knowing very well, that this kind of torture always bears wonderful fruits. He closed his eyes, his breathing getting quicker, as the hunter reached his stomach, nipping at his skin, and touching gently the soft area of his tights with one hand.

Finally, Tavaris reached his cock and took it into his mouth, making Zevran moan quietly. He took a great pride in the perfect control over his body, but now he was aroused for so long that every touch, no matter how clumsy, seemed to be amplified tenfold. The younger elf seemed surprised by the reaction, as he paused for a second, but then started timidly caressing the head with his tongue. The older elf groaned louder, giving himself to the pleasure keenly and that seemed to be enough for the Warden to gain his confidence. He embraced Zevran’s pulsing shaft with his mouth, trying to repeat the assassin’s feat — but, alas, he wasn’t a child of a whorehouse. He choked and looked at Zevran with so terribly anxious face that the assassin couldn’t help, but chuckle.

“Don’t worry,  _querido_ ,” he said, using his hold on Tav’s hair to bring him gently back up into a kiss. “Hardly anyone is able to do it at the first attempt.”  

Tavaris still looked crestfallen, so Zevran found his lips again, pulling him closer so their cocks again started to rub at each other, trapped between their bodies. He kissed deeply, pulling slightly at his partner’s hair, and pressing the second hand against the younger man’s firm butt.

“This is fine too. We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t want,” he murmured when he caught his breath, tracing soothing patterns over the delicious firmness of Tav’s ass. Tavaris was incredibly warm, smelled and tasted absolutely lovely and the pressure of his solid, sculpted body was even more than Zevran needed to get his own pleasure.

“You still haven’t…” Tav whispered, a strange mixture of shyness and lust filling his voice. “And you’re used to… ” He bit his lower lip nervously. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

Zevran smirked, looking at Tavaris with amusement and combed the golden strands away from his face with his fingers.

“You _really_ aren’t ready for the kind of sex I’m used to, _querido_ ” he answered in a hushed tone. “But you mustn’t feel inadequate for that. You have a gorgeous body which is a pure bliss to behold and I’m honoured that you allow me to see it—” he let his eyes graze the tattoos and the strong chest, narrow hips and powerful thighs “— caress it —” he squeezed the Warden’s ass mischievously, moving his mouth closer to his neck, to a spot he already discovered as particularly sensitive. “Taste it,” he whispered, teasing it with a tip of his tongue, just to bit it playfully when he heard hunter’s quiet sigh. “Don’t worry about me,” he concluded in a whisper, lavishing attention at the bruised skin. “I take a great delight in making this little tryst enjoyable for you.”

Tavaris let out a low sound of pleasure, surprised by the bite, as he let his head fall to Zevran’s shoulder.

“Just like that, _querido_ ,” Zevran encouraged softly, tightening his hold over their dicks. “Don’t think too much. Let go.”

It seemed for a moment that Tavaris would listen. He panted loudly, pressing his face into the crook of Zevran’s shoulder and buckling wildly into assassin’s fist. Sweat painted his skin with a glistening layer and deep shadows softened his form, making it seem ethereal. With the only source of light being the fire outside the tent, Zevran doubted a non-elven eye would see much; not that it mattered. What did, was that for him the view, as well as the pleasure, was magnificent.

But then Tavaris groaned, forcing his head up and pressing his forehead to Zevran’s cheek.

“Please, let me,” he panted. “Show me how to make you feel good. Please.”

Zevran rolled them both over, hovering over his lithe partner as he pecked his lips.

“I already feel _very_ good,” he purred, looking into the dazed, grey eyes. “But, if you really want to try something else…” He licked a stripe at Tavaris’ neck. “You could fuck me. I’m curious how a Warden dick would feel inside my ass…”

The hunter’s eyes widened almost comically.

“Fuck you?” He asked, almost choking in surprise. Then a flicker of fear appeared. “I wouldn’t know…”

“It’s no rush,” Zevran soothed, nosing at his ear. “I offer because you asked. But I’m perfectly fine with leaving things as they are.”

“How about…” The younger man twisted in Zevran’s arms and nibbled at his jaw. “You fuck me? Show me how it’s done…?” He purred, looking at the assassin questioningly. Zevran raised one of his brows. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, Andraste, no! But…

“We could to that, but I don’t know if you’d like it.” He just said. “Some find it… an acquired taste to find themselves at the receiving end.”

Tavaris smiled.

“Please, Zevran. I trust you.”

There was something insufferably scary and arousing at once in this declaration. Zevran just couldn’t refuse such a request — not that he _really_ wanted. Not even a single question of his was motivated by unwillingness.  But with a lover so inexperienced, so vulnerable, he just couldn’t risk any harm.

“Then I’ll do everything in my power to prove worthy this trust,” he promised in a hushed whisper, capturing young man’s lips again. Tavaris was pliant in his arms, relaxed, and his tongue invaded Zevran’s mouth without a trace of reticence. The assassin purred against the kiss, cradling the hunter’s head with one hand and starting to slowly massage his way to his lover’s entrance with the second.

Now, that Tavaris offered and started to turn into delicious goo under the assassin’s care, Zevran discovered that he wanted this young man with an unexpected desperation. It was probably too long since he had anyone to share his bed.

“That might feel weird at first,” he warned, searching blindly for his belt — there was a little container full of the aromatic salve which he always had on him for the emergencies like this. “Just relax and let me know if you want to stop at any time.”

The Crow’s concerns seemed to be unfounded. Tavaris succumbed to Zevran’s ministrations with enthusiasm, moaning against his mouth, shivering at Zevran’s every touch as the Antivan carefully widened his entrance. The assassin was absolutely delighted, entranced by his young lover reactions, as he entered him with his fingers gently, but decisively, covering him generously with the aromatic salve. Finally, he turned the hunter on the stomach and kissed the nape of his neck.

“How do you feel? I want you to tell me of anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he asked again.

Tavaris murmured something that was completely incoherent, but sounded absolutely pleased, so Zevran smiled, taking a few precious moments more to make sure that his lover was really relaxed enough. He reached deeper, gently searching for the sensitive point that made Mahariel buckle his hips upwards the second he stroked it. Tavaris moaned quietly, and the assassin decided he there was no reason to wait any longer. The hunter was pliant and relaxed and his ass was driving Zevran crazy. He lifted young Dalish’s hips with care and entered him slowly, sighing loudly as the warm, tight flesh engulfed him.

The sound the Warden made could be described only as ecstatic. Zevran closed his eyes, letting the pleasure fill him, as the tight body of his lover closed around him, pressing blissfully. He waited a moment, wanting the hunter to have enough time to get used to the new sensation, but it seemed pointless: the Dalish moved first, a bit gingerly at the beginning, but swiftly getting his confidence back and they both groaned noisily, both overwhelmed with pleasure.

Zevran found it hard to think, almost lost in the warm, soft sensation, but he wasn’t the one to forget about the needs of his lover. He reached down Tavaris’ leg and grabbed his cock firmly, stroking it to the rhythm of their moves. The hunter tossed his hips higher at that, pillowing his head at his arms, and almost crying in pleasure.

The sight was absolutely irresistible. Zevran couldn’t help, but speed up his moves, as he watched the muscular body covered in scars and tattoos arching to meet his with a hunger so raw, he rarely saw anything like that anymore. His wide, muscular shoulders served him well now, as he braced himself against Zevran’s thrusts — and the assassin discovered he wanted to worship these shoulders later. Now his free hand wandered along Tavaris’ side, and it seemed to multiply the pleasure of the Dalish, as he soon cried ecstatically spilling his semen all over his cot, and fell down on the furs like a broken doll.

Zevran was already delaying his own climax when Tavaris came, so he let go with a deep groan, then fell at the hunter’s body, kissing his neck, and rolled on the side. The younger man lifted his head slightly, giving him this heavy-lidded look that comes with an absolute bliss, then shifted, laying the golden head at the Antivan’s shoulder.

* * *

 

They lay like that for a long time, on the thick layer of furs in the Warden’s tent. Zevran’s arm was wrapped around his young lover, stroking absently his skin. He was feeling quite content and it surprised him a little — while it wasn’t the best sex he ever had (it would be terribly unfair to expect otherwise from the younger man), it was much better experience than he had hoped for. Tavaris was a bit awkward and clumsy — every virgin was, and there was no way around that — but he had the makings of a really good lover. He had astonishingly beautiful body, was eager to learn and to please, showed initiative and, if somebody would teach him a thing or two… Zevran found himself rather willing to be this teacher. Probably it was partly because there wasn’t anyone else whom he’d like to bed during their mission: Alistair reminded him of a big, drooling puppy, and he was also pretty sure, that that Warden didn’t swing that way, Leilana, while pretty enough for him to look past her Chantry obsession already informed him she’s not interested, Morrigan — oh, he’d love to, but valued his manhood too much. Sten was Sten, and that was saying enough.  That left him with this charming young man who lied in his arms.

“See, I know it would happen eventually. I should have warned you the moment you…” Zevran noticed Tav’s uneasy expression and broke mid-sentence. “Is there a problem,  _querido_?” He asked instead, placing a soft kiss on his lover’s brow. Tavaris looked up and there was this skittish boy again, hidden in his eyes. The assassin fought the urge to sigh — he hoped they were already past it. On the other hand, he knew that despite what people might think, there was more to losing virginity than lying with one lover. The mindset often didn’t change so easily.

“Well… You’re a man, so it doesn’t mean anything, does it?” Asked the younger elf and Zevran almost scoffed, annoyed. And, in some ridiculous way, offended.

“What are you talking about, my Warden?” He asked, a little more sharply than he intended. “It’s just a pleasant way to spend some time, sure, but I don’t see what it has to do with my gender.”

“I mean… We’re not _nadas_ _’lath_ now, right? Since neither of us is a woman…”

Zevran exhaled slowly. This was a Dalish man here, in his embrace.  He didn’t think in the King’s Tongue — at least not the pure variant of it. He didn’t think like a human, or even a city elf — and surely he didn’t think like an Antivan. Whatever he said, no matter how he said it, wasn’t meant to sting as it did.

“I’m afraid you must explain it to me, if I am to answer,” he said, playing with a long lock of the hunter’s hair. “I’m not familiar with the Dalish customs.”

Tavaris hesitated.

“ _Nadas_ _’lath_ is…” he searched for a words for a moment. “A bonded pair? Something like a _shem_ ‘marriage,’ I think, though it can’t be broken.” He explained quietly.  Zevran raised a brow in an astonishment.

“No, we’re not _married_ ,” he chuckled, the idea probably the most absurd thing he’d heard in months. “Wait… You thought we got married just because we had sex? Isn’t there usually much more… I don’t know. Altars and vows and priests?”

Tavaris shook his head.

“Not with my people. You just court a girl — usually of your own choice, but if you don’t have anyone who caught your fancy, the elders would eventually pick one for you. Then she lets you into her _aravella_ and you try to get children… And when you came out the next morning you’re considered _nadas_ _’lath._ You’re partners in life and hunt and childbearing and other girls are forbidden to you.”

“Well, we did it and there will be no children out of it. And you’re welcome to find other partners if you wish to.” Zevran smiled, trying to sound reassuring. “It was enjoyable — I hope — and that’s what it was supposed to be about.” He kissed his shoulder — Andraste’s tits, these shoulders were to die for. “You shouldn’t worry.  We aren’t married in any way, nor I wish we were. It’s a fling, a thing of mutual pleasure, yes? Nothing more. We get bored, we go our separate ways.” He pulled the Warden closer to peck at his swollen lips teasingly. The kiss became longer than he expected, as his partner gave in, wrapping his arms around the assassin’s neck. “No need to bother about that anymore, yes?” He asked finally, breathing the words into Tavaris’ skin.

“You’re probably right,” answered the younger man, his eyes already filling with returning desire. “It’s for a man and a woman anyway. It’s probably _harel_ that we do it together, but… I really don’t want to stop.”

Ah, that was it, Zevran thought, finally discovering, what bothered him in Warden’s question. It wasn’t, of course, the fact, that boy didn’t wish to “marry” him. It was the notion that sex with him was less important than making love to woman, just because they were both men. Or that sex between two men was something shameful, if he understood that last sentence right. Especially…

“May I ask you something,  _mi querido_?”  He started, sliding the hand along the Tavaris’ side and gently kissing his collarbone. The hunter sighed approvingly and nodded. “Whatever you want to know,” he said.  

“Have you ever considered any particular girl to become… your,” he attempted to repeat the unfamiliar word, pretty sure he failed miserably,  “nada-laa?” As he waited, he moved his hand a bit lower, stroking his partner’s hip lazily.

“Oh…?” Younger man looked at the Antivan surprised. “Well… If you want to know… There was one girl.” It was time for the assassin to be shocked. It definitely wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Tavaris continued without noticing anything was amiss. “She was a great cook, and a good hunter too. Also a fine leatherworker. And she had… dreamy brother.”

Zevran raised his head, looking at the Dalish with astonishment. “Dreamy brother?” He asked, almost choking with laughter. “You considered marrying a girl… Because her brother had a nice ass?”

“Well, if you put it that way…” Tavaris blushed and tried to rise from furs. Zevran held him in place, kissing his abdomen and trying to suppress laughter. “Oh, where are you going,  _mi peque_ _ño querido_?” He drawled, looking at the young man with amusement. “You might find one day, that this Blight was the best thing that ever happened to you… And I intent to make this day come sooner.”

They hadn’t left the tent this evening anymore. Tavaris might have been shy and filled with self doubt stemming from all that homophobic bullshit he was raised in, but he was also really enthusiastic, and it pleased Zevran almost as much as the sex itself. For so long time he had chosen only experienced lovers, that he already forgot how refreshing making love to someone so young and untried could be. The hunter, of course, had his bad moments — after choking, he once bit Zevran too hard even for the assassin’s tastes, once pulled on his hair in a completely unplanned way, twice elbowed him by an accident. But after each mistake he grew even more careful, more considerate, and so willing to accommodate every Zevran’s need that it was almost touching. And the stamina! The assassin had heard legends, but used to dismiss them as absurd. Now he wasn’t so sure.

 

This really nice night had also a downside, but that was something they didn’t realize until morning. They overslept, and when they finally emerged from the tent it was almost noon. The whole party was gathered by the fire, chatting cheerfully — suspiciously including Morrigan who usually preferred to camp separately. Bodahn Feddic came from his cart, bringing the Wardens’ party some additional supplies, and the only one who wasn’t visible in the close proximity was Sten.

“Ooooh, look who’s up!” Chirped Leliana, pouring herbal tea to two wooden cups sitting in a front of her. “I believe you two had a nice night?”

“Everyone knows they had a nice night,” said Morrigan with a sour expression. “ _I_  have heard their nice night.”

Alistair sat over his breakfast with a furrowed brow.

“I was pretty sure that both of you were men… So how does it work?” He asked, eyeing two elves suspiciously.

Tavaris simply wasn’t equipped to deal with the situation. He hid behind Zevran’s back, his face red. Leliana giggled.

“Oh, what a cute, shy boy! I couldn’t tell he’s so modest, judging by the night’s sounds…”

Zevran sighed, ruffling the hair on the back of his lover’s neck.

“Give him a break,” he said, smiling warmly to the hunter. “As for your question, Alistair, are you interested about the ways we made love last night, or are you interested in more general instructions? Because in the first case I’d prefer not to answer — our dear friend is already embarrassed enough. In the second, however, I’m perfectly willing to instruct you, even giving a practical presentation.” He smiled, taking the cups from Leilana and passing one to Tavaris, who was still hiding at his back. “We might start slowly, as I’d school you in the subtle art of fellatio…”

Alistair growled, putting both hands at his ears.

“Enough! I don’t want, I’m not interested, I regret I ever asked!”

“But are you sure?” Zevran feigned shock. “You would be surprised, how many men never get it right.” Behind his back Tavaris coughed, almost spilling the tea. Zevran chuckled, and gave the hunter a teasing look. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about you, _mi querido._ You only lack experience in that matter.”

The Dalish choked on the drink, turning into an even deeper shade of red, much to the assassin’s amusement.

Leliana looked at the older elf with feigned disapproval.

“And it was you, who said to give him a break,” she said, but apparently wasn’t inclined to take her own advice, asking instead:

“Sooo, how it was?”

“I’d prefer not to hear it,” said Morrigan bitterly. “I’m just happy that Zevran already found his victim. Maybe he’ll stop ogling me at last. “

“Oh, _hermosa_ , I would never dare to offend your beauty with such a neglect!” Zevran sat by the fire, reaching for the bread. “It would be absolutely unacceptable on my part.”

Alistair squinted his eyes at the young mage.

“You don’t want to hear it?” He asked. “What are you doing here, then? I believe, that you live somewhere two hundred yards behind us.”

Morrigan looked at the Warden with murder in her eyes.

“Aren’t you afraid I will turn you into a newt?”

Alistar didn’t answer, instead biting into the cheese with a renewed passion.

“Sooo?” chimed Leliana, putting a chin on her hands. “Are you going to tell us something?”

“I’m starving,” answered Tavaris grimly, finally reaching over the fire to get some porridge. “And I won’t let you embarrass me out of my breakfast.”

Zevran chuckled into his cup.

“That’s a spirit!”

Leliana hasn’t been touched at the slightest.

“Oh, don’t be so shy! We couldn’t sleep the whole night, so you two at least owe us a story!”

“A story?” The elven Warden looked at her sternly, gobbling his porridge in a terrifying pace. “How about: once upon a time there was this terribly annoying Orlesian bard, who made her companion angry enough to drown her in a pot of porridge. It was a sad accident, really, because the poor elf had to spend whole day hungry.”

Leliana scoffed, but Zevran raised one brow. It might not be the best execution, but considering how sheepish Tavaris was mere minutes ago…

“Whoa! Threats, really? I had no idea you had it in you!” He chuckled, and used the moment when the young Warden was standing up to get another portion, to pull him closer and kiss deeply.

“You are making me hungry for more already,” he said in the luring tone, enjoying the Warden’s flustered expression.

He had to admit, however, that awkward as he was, the Dalish didn’t try to run away from his kiss, returning it gingerly.

“Do you have to do it with all of them watching?” He asked only, eyes fixed on the ground, as he finally reached to the pot.

“No, I don’t have,” admitted Zevran, with a crooked smile. “But, you see, I enjoy making Alistair squirm.” He pointed with his chin at the second Warden, who, indeed, was looking even more uncomfortable than Tavaris. The human seemed to try to drown himself in his own bowl, as he was holding it mere centimetres from his face, even redder than the young elf’s.

Leliana was watching them with a delighted expression, looking like she was going to ask for more demonstrations, and Morrigan was peeking over her tea, trying to look uninterested. Thushel had finished breakfast and came to the hunter, short tail wiggling.  The Warden smiled widely, and petted the wide head.

“Who’s the good boy?” He chimed, scratching mabari’s ear. The dog looked at him smartly, then paced to Zevran, giving the assassin a wet lick at the hand.

Leliana giggled insanely, while Zevran scrunched his nose in disgust. He never understand Fereldans and their dogs — or the Dalish and all their critters.

“May I ask you to tell your dog not to drool at me anymore?” He asked, standing up to wash his hand.

Tavaris smiled timidly.

“I’ll try to convince him,” he promised. “But he likes you. And, apparently thinks that you're 'a good boy'”

“I’d like him much better if I didn’t have to wash myself after him. And I'm going to be gracious and pretend that I haven't heard that last part.” Zevran scowled at the dog, who was now sitting with his head down, whimpering sadly. The sight was pitiful enough for the elf to relent.

“All right, let’s make a deal. I will scratch him sometimes, but he can’t lick me,” he felt ridiculous giving that offer, but these beasts were said to be incredibly intelligent, after all. Maybe he wasn’t making a complete fool of himself.

The short tail rattled at the ground.

“I guess it’s settled then?” Tavaris looked from his dog to his lover with a hesitant expression. Zevran smiled, giving him a suggestive look.

“Oh, it is… But I’m going to need some _gratification_ from you for that.”

Leliana snorted again, Alistair growled and pulled his bowl even closer, Morrigan raised her brows, and Tavaris blushed, fixing his eyes on the ground.

“Have you already finished your mating rituals, elves?” Asked the deep voice of the qunari above them. Sten wasn’t amused.

Under the disapproving look of the qunari the Wardens made a quick job of the rest of the porridge. Despite his earlier embarrassment, Mahariel soon remembered his role and task, ordering them quickly over the bowl. The way he gestured with his spoon was rather cute, though, Zevran noted, even if the hunter was back to his Warden persona.

“The main camp will stay here,” he decided. “I will take Morrigan...” he hesitated for a second, ”Sten and Zevran into the forest. Unless any of you is against that?” He waited for a moment for protest that didn’t come then proceeded.

“We’ll scout the area, see what’s really going on here. We might spend night in the forest, so gather what you need. The rest of you,” he looked pointedly at Leliana and Alistair, “keep civilized. Relationships with  _shemlen_  are a powerful taboo, so tread lightly. We don’t want them to think that any of you is making any moves, and they might be oversensitive in that matter, especially when I won't be around to explain. Absolutely don’t try to approach any children.” He pointed at his face. “Note that everyone without the  _vallasin_  is a child, even if they look rather grown-up to you. Remember to treat the statues of the Creators with respect…”

The list went on and on, most of it being a rehash from the previous evening, and Zevran went to pack necessities, getting bored already.

It was astounding, he decided, filling an additional wineskin with a strong spirit, how fast the Warden was able to switch between the shy lover and a collected leader. He hoped quietly that he will have more occasions to see that; he really enjoyed last night. And judging by the slight blush that crawled on the hunter’s neck every time their eyes met — Tavaris enjoyed it too.

 


	6. Baths and Bites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22th May 2017:  
> Since this chapter is crazy long and the edits took me _way_ longer than I planned, I will not update tomorrow, and maybe the day after. I just need to catch up.

Zevran was sure that they’d leave as soon as Tavaris was finished with the long list of do’s and don’ts. He didn’t expect to feel a narrow hand on his shoulder as he was trying to decide if taking the blanket was worth the effort. And he definitely didn’t expect to see the young man standing behind him, slightly flustered, with his eyes trained on the ground.

“May I help you, _querido_?” He asked his lover quietly — because that, without any doubt, was his lover from the previous night looking like he could bolt any second — not the calm leader of their party who ordered them around short while ago. Zevran started to separate the personas in his mind.

Tavaris raised his head, blushing wildly, and tugged on his long, ridiculous ponytail.

“I was wondering… If you could help me with braiding it,” he murmured hesitantly, biting at his lip and observing him with a wariness of a wild animal. “I can of course do that myself,” he added quickly. “But it usually holds longer if someone does it for me. And you seemed to like it…” The last sentence he almost whispered, fixing his eyes on the ground again.

Zevran usually avoided overt tenderness outside of sex or anything that could be read as a romance thing; but in this particular case making their affair into a casual relationship could be actually beneficial, so he tugged the younger man lower, placing a teasing kiss on his lips.

“It would me my pleasure,” he answered with a charming smirk. He _did_ like that hair and there was this hope that doing couple-y things would keep Tavaris interested and more inclined to heed Zevran’s advice.

The hunter opened his eyes wide, startled, as if he was expecting refusal.

“Really?” He asked in shock, and stiffened, probably annoyed with his own reaction. Zevran smiled, slightly amused.

“Really. Come here.”

Tavaris turned his back to him, reluctantly handing him an ornate comb made of horn. It looked as if it could be his most valuable possession apart of the fighting gear.

The Ativian smiled lightly, seeing the tense posture of his lover, as he untied his golden mane.

“Don’t worry,  _querido_. I won’t bite...” He run his fingers along the long hair, kissing the tip of the Dalish’s ear and whispered lasciviously: “At least, not right now.”

The young elf shivered, but relaxed, letting Zevran work the comb through his hair. The assassin had to admit: he shamelessly enjoyed that. Tav’s hair was still tangled a bit after their lovemaking, but it was amazingly soft and sleek. The Antivan hadn’t had a clue, how the hunter managed to keep it in such perfect condition, living as he lived: always on the move and definitely without too much spare time to groom it. He had seen many high born ladies, spending their whole lives on getting pampered, and he rarely saw the hair so beautiful.

Must’ve been some dalish magic, without a doubt.

Tavaris loosened under his touch, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, clearly enjoying the brushing. It was rather pleasant to see him like that, though the professional part of Zevran’s mind moaned with despair, seeing as easily the Warden exposed himself. He made a mental note of keeping an eye on everyone Tavaris would allow in his close proximity. He needed him to survive, and besides, it would be a real shame to see this very sensitive throat slit.

“It’s all nice and fun and I love embarrassing Alistair, but, as the priestess famously said to the handsome actor,” the assassin said, covering his hesitance with a jest “What now? I don’t want to impose anything on you.” He hoped that the fact that Tavaris came to him with his request meant that he wanted to continue their affair; it would be definitely easier to guard the man if he shared the bed with him.

“Impose?” The young elf asked, leaning to his touch, as he run the comb through his hair.

“About the last night? Because, as I told you. This thing,” he gestured between them with the comb, “is about a pleasure. Not promises or expectations. But then, I have to know, if you want us to continue, or consider it one-time thing.”

“And what do you want?” Tavaris’ voice was suspiciously weak.

“It entirely depends on you,  _querido_ ,” Zevran answered graciously. “I won’t lie, I deeply enjoyed last night. But then, I won’t say a word, if you don’t want to repeat it.” But please, please, make my life easier, he added in his mind.

The hunter sighed deeply and didn’t say a word for a while. Zevran started to resign himself to idea that this was the only night they had together. He… could work around that.

Eventually, Tavaris flexed his neck slightly to look at him, mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Do I look like I was running away? I don’t let just anyone to touch my hair, you know.”

Zevran raised his brow - he hoped for this sort of answer, but wasn’t really expecting this kind of look from the younger elf. But then, last night he proved to be perfectly capable of showing some roguishness as soon as he gained some confidence.

He smiled lightly and kissed Tavaris’ jaw.

“Then I’ll be happy to keep you company, as long as you’ll have me.”

Finally he handed the comb back to the hunter, gathering the man’s hair in his hands. Not only was it long, but also unusually thick for a hair so lengthy. He didn’t hurry, plaiting the braid carefully, gently tugging on wisps to ensure there wouldn’t be too much stray hair. And he unashamedly luxuriated in the soft feel of the long strands in his hands. When he finished, it almost felt disappointing.

“I’d love to do it more often,” he told the hunter as he tied the end of the long braid. "Last time I held anything so silky it was after one very successful mission, years ago. That brings good memories.”

Tav’s eyes flashed briefly.

“I’d like that,” he admitted. “The last person that did it for me was Tamlen. I didn’t really think that I’d be able to ask someone else… but you do it differently.”

Zevran run his fingers along the long braid, slid it over the hunter’s shoulder and kissed the crook of his neck, hoping that the hunter would read it for what it was — a promise of many wonderful nights to follow.

“Anytime you wish,  _querido_ ,” he promised.

Morrigan cleared her throat over them, annoyed. “I see I must repeat Sten’s question,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Are you finished? I believe you wanted to enter the forest before the nightfall, Warden.”

The young elf in Zevran’s arms tensed and the assassin let him go, sensing that Mahariel was the leader again, not the lover.

“Take the blanket, Zevran,” he ordered, without looking at him. “It would be definitely too cold for you if we spend the night in the forest. Just pack it tightly.”

The assassin raised his brows, slightly startled by the cold, business-like tone, but he folded the blanked and rolled it into a small bundle. He probably shouldn’t be so surprised. As far as he observed, Tavaris was only able to be the Warden or the gentle companion at one time; it probably had something to do with his insecurities.

As soon as he was finished with the blanket, Tav snatched it straight from his hands and tossed to Sten.

“Take it please. It won’t restrict your movements as much as Zevran’s or mine.”  
He fixed a quiver at his hip, checked his daggers and stringed his bow in quick, effective moves. Finally he fastened his cloak under his neck and looked pointedly at the assassin, who considered himself fairly prepared.

“Cloak, Zev,” he commanded quietly. “You will be sorry if you leave it.”

Tough the assassin knew that Tavaris was probably right, he didn’t really enjoy being the only one ordered around like a child.

“I’m not a forest person, Warden,” he said, scoffing lightly. “Maybe you should take Leliana with you.”

The Dalish shook his head slightly.

“I wont force you, Zevran, if you really don’t want to come. But I don’t need a second archer. I need you,” he answered calmly. “Besides, I don’t think Leliana is much better suited for that. Orlesian courts are not overly… foresty, I believe.” He smiled, but the smile was as forced as the joke. The bard laughed quietly; Arainai suspected she noticed the Warden's effort and decided to play along. It wasn’t so funny.

“I believe you’re right, Tavaris. Forest mulch doesn’t really agree with shoes.”

Zevran rolled his eyes.

“So it would be my boots ruined, then?” He grumped. Tavaris sighed quietly.

“Your boots will be fine. And, besides, I need you at my back.”

This time it was Alistair’s turn to protest.

“Assassin, Tav,” he said, carefully pronouncing his words. “The ass-sass-sin. Hired to kill you, you know. Not a good person to turn your back to. I'll go instead.”

The hunter clenched his jaw, something very dangerous flashing in his eyes. Here he is, thought Zevran. Here’s the man who fought his way out of the Crow’s trap.

“For your information, Alistair, I’ve spend a better part of the night with my back completely exposed to the said assassin,” he answered. His tone was still calm, but now there was an edge to it, which with slightly flared nostrils and the hard look gave him rather threatening aura.

Zevran was amazed. A short while ago Tavaris was too bewildered to face some friendly teasing and now he unabashedly threw their shared night in the faces of their companions. He observed similar transformations of the boy before, but this time he seemed much more uncomfortable than usual before he snapped into the role of the Warden.

Alistair growled quietly.

“And that just proves my point!” He said, throwing his arms wide. “You’ve became reckless!”

Tavaris narrowed his eyes at the fellow Warden.

“It was you who decided that I’m in command here. So now — either fall in line, or  go to Orlais to fetch someone else,” he drawled. “I won’t have my authority undermined. Surely not by a man who decided he’s too gutless to take the responsibility that by all the rules should be his.”

Alistair made a face as if Mahariel punched him in the gut. The rest of their companions betrayed different levels of surprise. Even Sten raised one of his brows in a minuscule expression of wonder.

Zevran… Zevran, on the other hand, discovered that he suddenly had to deal with a very inconvenient arousal. Apparently, Mahariel putting humans in their place did things to him.

“Zevran, Morrigan, Sten — we’re going,” barked the elf in question, turning his back to the campfire. “And Zevran: take this cursed cloak.”

The assassin didn’t argue anymore, snatching the garment from his bedroll and hurried after the rest of their party.

The young ranger dictated rather fast pace as he led them in silence into the forest. He opened his mouth once, to briefly greet the hunters keeping watch, as they passed by, then turned to a narrow path, leading them deeper between the trees.

He seemed to know this place — but then his clan probably camped there sometimes. The stone statues scattered around suggested that it was a rather permanent location for Dalish camps.

After about a half an hour of walking in complete silence, the assassin sighed quietly. The ranger was still angry, judging by the set of his jaw and steely gaze, and Zevran started to feel guilty.

“I’m sorry, Tavaris,” he said quietly. “This fight at the camp… it was my fault.”

The hunter looked at him — his expression was severe at first, but then warmth slowly returned to his eyes, as he processed the Antivan’s words.

“You don’t have to apologize, Zevran. It was Alistair’s fault, not yours,” he answered gently, then furrowed his brow again. “He should start keeping his prejudices to himself.”

“I wouldn’t really call it ‘prejudice’, considering my profession,” Zevran quipped. “I don’t blame him for being cautious — in fact I’d advise you to try this idea out for yourself. As it happens, I have much more reasons to keep you alive and in good health than otherwise. But it wouldn’t be the case with everyone.”

Mahariel smiled briefly.

“So you’ve told me. But I’m not some pampered _shem_ princess who needs army of people looking after them. I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself safe. I would just appreciate if you’d warn me of any potential poisons in my food; that I could miss.” He looked at Zevran with a slight smile.

The assassin thought about the previous night and absolutely un-princessy parts of Tav’s anatomy.

“No, you're most definitely not a princess,” he agreed with a smug smile, not even trying to hide lustfulness in his voice or the wanton look in his eyes. What could he say, he liked what he saw in Tav’s tent. Much to his amusement he heard Morrigan sigh theatrically.

Tips of Tav’s ears reddened deliciously and the hunter shoot him a sheepish look.

“Not now, please,” he pleaded, but Zevran was happy to see that he was much less nervous than in the morning. The Antivan grinned.

“Fine, I’ll stop. For one kiss.” He wasn’t even sure what came over him. It wasn’t like it could count as a foreplay or anything… But to Pit with that, he decided he needed to bond with the younger man. So he was bonding. And having some fun.

“Oh, wonderful,” Morrigan sneered, rolling her eyes. “Please, don’t restrain yourselves on our behalf. We would love to see you two dry-humping under a tree.”

Tavaris’ face turned red in an instant. Zevran just smiled at her, conjuring the most lascivious expression he could muster.

“Oh, thank you for the offer, my dear,” he answered. “We might just do that, if you insist. Care to join?”

“I believe I already told you that I’m more inclined to stab you in the face…”

“Zevran, a kiss,” Tavaris interrupted desperately. “And you stop.”

“And here it started to become interesting…” The assassin laughed sliding his arm around the hunter’s slim waist and pulling him close. His young lover’s body was trembling, as Arainai wrapped the long braid around his hand, cradling his head and leaning down into a kiss. He wasn’t sure if it was anticipation or the nerves — but still, as soon as his mouth touched Tavaris’, the ranger’s lips parted obediently, inviting him in. He still tasted spicy, Zevran noticed with a genuine pleasure, as he kissed him slowly, sensually and decisively, his tongue invading the smooth wetness of Tav’s mouth, and promising more in a due time. The hunter whimpered quietly, his arms embracing Zevran’s neck, the long bow in his hand bobbing lightly against assassin’s back and ruffling his hair. Soon, the young man melted against him and it seemed that the only thing that kept him standing was Zevran’s embrace.

Finally the assassin pulled away, wishing he could steal the Warden into the privacy of his tent — the kiss made him more worked up than he expected. The ranger sighed loudly, giving him heavy-lidded, lustful look, and taking a few moments to gather his wits again.

“Now, can we be professional?” He asked, taking a deep breath and gesturing for their party to move. The assassin restrained himself before he made another lewd comment, and nodded, still with self-satisfied smirk.

“Assuming you’re finished…?” Morrigan answered instead.

Fortunately — they were. Mahariel’s taste was still lingering on Zevran’s lips, when a group of werewolves emerged from the thick cluster of trees. In a blink of an eye Tav’s bow was strung, an arrow ready. The hunter was impossibly fast — Zevran just managed to get his own daggers into his hands, when the Dalish was already aiming at the biggest beast. Nocking an arrow and then aiming usually needed much more time than sliding the daggers from their sheaths on his forearms.

Much to their surprise, the beast stopped few meters ahead, narrowing it’s eyes at them.

“You’re not Dalish,” it growled at Sten and Morrigan. “Go away. We want only the elves.”

Zevran raised his brow incredulously. The werewolf looked at him again, apparently noticing the lack of  _vallasin_.

“Dalish elves. You can run too, city flat-ear.”

“Well, Zathrian hasn’t told me, that he had a problem with  _talking_  werewolves,” Tavariel observed lightly, his bow still trained at the biggest beast. At the mention of the Keeper’s name the monster bared his teeth, growling.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we come as a double deal,” Zevran smiled coldly, stepping forward to shield the archer. On his right Sten was doing the same.

“Don’t let them bite you,” Mahariel warned quietly.

“Fine, you can die too.” The werewolf shrugged indifferently and then jumped suddenly in Tav’s direction.

The damned thing was bigger than Sten, Zevran noticed nervously, launching himself at the closest beast, aiming at its hamstrings. Over his head he heard the arrows whizzing in a rapid succession and the loud sound of Morrigan’s ice missiles hitting their marks. The werewolf aimed its clawed paw at Zevran, and the assassin rolled to the side, barely escaping the blow that would probably tear him in half. Before he even managed to rise to his feet, the creature gave a pained howl, its paw pinned to its abdomen with a dark-feathered arrow. The next missile came almost immediately, piercing the monster’s eye.

Zevran looked around, searching for another foe, but out of the six beasts, four lay dead around them and the two remaining scurried back into the deep forest, clearly wounded.

Tavaris scowled, looking after the escaping beasts.

“One of these took an enchanted arrow with it. I hate losing them.” He looked around, checking his companions. “You all alright?” He asked, but despite the fact that the question was addressed to everyone, he approached Zevran with a wary expression.

The assassin brushed him off.

“Not even a scratch,” he said. Tavaris let out loud breath.

“I’m glad. That was close.”

“Are you going to make calf’s eyes on each other again?” Morrigan scowled. Mahariel shoot her an annoyed look.

“If I saw you disappearing under a paw this size, I would be worried about you. So please, shut up and help me collect my arrows.”

He went to the corpse of the beast that almost sliced Zevran and pulled the dark arrow out, studying it carefully. He cursed and threw it on the grass.

_“Fenedhis_ , the shaft is bent. That’s what you get for angry shooting.” He murmured, moving to collect the remaining arrows.

“What do you mean, ‘angry shooting’?” Zevran asked neutrally, picking up the discarded arrow. It looked normal to him, except it’s colouring — different than most of the arrows in the ranger's quiver — but under his fingertips he felt an odd throbbing. Seemingly it was one of those enchanted ones. Tavaris shrugged.

“Never mind.”

Out of eight arrows Tavaris found, he took six, examining each one carefully. Morrigan was leaning on her staff and yawning, Sten — surprisingly — decided to help in the gathering.

“You could be honoured among the Antaam,” declared the Qunari, looking at the bodies sprawled around. Zevran got a closer look, discovering that while all of the bodies bore marks of different weapons, most of the mortal wounds were caused by arrows. Tavaris smiled smugly, wiping the reclaimed missiles with a cloth he kept in a quiver.

“I’m fine where I am, Sten, but thank you.”

While it was hard to tell what the Qunari really meant, it was surely a praise and it was well-earned, Zevran thought, observing the short archer as it became his habit lately. It was also true, that Tavaris was fine where he was. He finally seemed relaxed, smiling and confident as he worked. It could be the forest, it could be the new Dalish armour, made of thickly woven leather straps that he wore — and which fit him like a glove. It was only now that Zevran realized how awkward and ill-fitting was the clothing Mahariel used to wear before.

Soon the arrows were cleaned and back in the quiver, and the hunter was leading them further into the deep forest. At the end of a day, after several encounters with werewolves — none of which talked — two with darkspawn, a fight with an enormous bear and a clash with crazy, moving trees, Zevran had enough. Especially that their brave leader made them turn back twice, dragging unconscious Dalish hunters back to the camp and then doubling back to whichever part of the forest they found them in. That roused some grumbling from Morrigan, who complained about bleeding hearts and terrible waste of time. While Zevran agreed with her wholeheartedly, he kept his opinions to himself, especially after Mahariel snapped and launched into a long-winded lecture about the Dalish, community and ‘common decency’, almost attracting another ogre.

After all that, when Tavaris  finally decreed it was time to make camp, the assassin just half fell-half sat under a tree, hating fiercely all the forests in the world. Especially the ones with superabundance of walking, talking, rhyming trees. He wanted nothing more than to get back and crawl into his tent — he didn’t even dare to dream about an inn and a hot bath — but apparently that wasn’t going to happen.

When they discovered the magic barrier that was impenetrable even to Morrigan, Tavaris cheerily informed them that they will find a way to bypass it. And most surprisingly — he found a solution… Of course it one was to believe a rhyming oak. But then, Mahariel seemed to be inclined to, he announced that tomorrow they are going to search for the dumb Oak’s acorn and that there was no use in getting back to the main camp tonight.

That was a fool’s errand if he ever heard of one, Zevran thought, swatting with disgust another mosquito from his tight. It seemed like all the bugs in the area came to to check if Antivans tasted any different than Fereldans.

“Zevran, make the fire, please,” came the quiet command from where Tavaris was seated, scrapping the bear pelt with a dagger. Morrigan was busy with tending to a head wound Sten had received during the fight with sylvans, and on the side lay a chunk of bear meat, waiting to be roasted.

Zevran flexed, frowned and slowly stood up, looking at the trees with deep disdain.

“I would really appreciate if you needed me in more civilized surroundings in the future,” he said, scrunching his nose. “Of course, if I’m even going to survive till morning. This place is a nightmare. And of course, my boots are ruined.”

The young elf raised his head and looked at him with a slight amusement.

“Don’t whine, Zev. You’re not even scratched,” he said with a smirk. “You’ll live.”

“I’m not sure,” the assassin announced grimly, killing another mosquito that decided that an exotic elf is the best possible treat available. “I’m going to get eaten alive during the night.”

Tavaris chuckled and his voice softened almost instantly, even if there was still a playful quality in it.

“I might be able to help you with that. But first: the fire. It’s almost too dark to search for the kindling and I don’t want my dinner raw.” He gestured at the meat.

Zevran begrudgingly headed into the forest, which seemed much more ominous than it had in the morning. He was never a big amateur of wilderness, or woodlands in particular and that was even before he learnt that there were places in which _the trees themselves_ were out to kill an unfortunate adventurer. Now his mild dislike turned into a seething hatred. He wasn’t also ashamed to admit that he was simply afraid. Without Mahariel and Morrigan, who both seemed to have additional senses that made them see the invisible in this hellscape, he felt awfully exposed and defenceless. He knew that Tav scouted the area before deciding on camping spot and that Morrigan probably checked it in her own way. That didn’t change the fact that he jumped at the slightest sound, fully expecting the twigs he gathered to turn bloodthirsty without any warning.

He had to make several rounds, but when he was finished, the fire was already blazing and the meat roasting.

“You seem tense,” Tavaris observed, looking annoyingly carefree on his spread cloak. He patted the free space next to him, inviting the assassin to take a seat. “We were discussing watches. I want you to take first one.”

Zevran felt he was treated like a spoilt kid… But for once he didn’t mind.

“If you’re expecting me to object, you might be disappointed,” he answered stiffly as he sat down, still distressed by the very fact he was in the middle of the Brecilian forest where trees walked and werewolves talked. Tavaris smiled gently, but Morrigan scoffed.

“Not a big surprise here,” she commented. “Don’t worry, I’m going to place wards before going to sleep, in case something big and bad came from the forest to eat you.”

Tavaris rolled his eyes.

“Morrigan, give him a break. Not everyone was raised like you or me. I remember you complaining for a week about sleeping in the inn in Lothering.”

“There were fleas!” She retorted angrily, but lowered her gaze. “Fine, fine. Just try to not comfort him too loudly. I’d like to spend the night without attracting every hungry beast in Brecilian.”

Tav’s lips clasped into a thin line, his cheerful demeanour suddenly gone.

“Try to not burn our dinner,” he snapped, rising on his feet and searching for something in his meagre bag. He produced a small jar and a light satchel and nodded at the assassin.

“Would you come to the stream with me?” He asked, his hard expression slowly melting into a shy smile again. “I’ve promised you something.”

The witch groaned in disgust… and it might have been a play of light, but Zevran was almost sure he saw a mischievous spark in his lover’s eyes.

He picked the bait, rising on his feet. He wasn’t enthusiastic about leaving the circle of fire, but then, with Tavaris at his back it could even be nice… Depending on what the younger man planned.

“I couldn’t possibly pass on such delicious offer,” he smiled at Tavaris lasciviously— even if the expression was more studied than heartfelt — noting with a satisfaction Morrigan’s deeply annoyed face.

He was torn about the fact that Tav took his bow and quiver with him. Sure, he had taken his own blades — he wouldn’t be caught without a weapon here, but if the hunter decided he couldn’t part with his arms, Zevran couldn’t possibly feel safe.

The younger man led him along the almost invisible path down the stream, rather a long way from their camp. The darkness was falling fast and the assassin found himself on a verge of panic, before they reached their destination. Somewhere along the way Tavaris took his hand and squeezed gently.

“We really need water, Zev, if I’m going to save you from being eaten by monster mosquitoes,” he smiled.

The assassin frowned.

“You too?” He asked, slightly annoyed. “It’s not my fault I’ve been raised in a more civilized place.”

Tavaris chuckled, and stood on his toes to kiss him quickly. Zevran, startled, managed only to put his arm around the hunter’s waist.

“I’m just trying to distract you. You are tense like a bowstring.”

“Maybe it’s because we’re in the middle of the famously dangerous forest, and I wouldn’t even be able to find the way to the camp back, were I alone?”

“You aren’t,” Tavaris said with a smile, cupping Zevran’s cheek tenderly and kissed him again, slowly and gently, nibbling on his lower lip. Despite the surroundings, Zevran felt his cock stir and pulled the smaller man closer, parting his mouth with his tongue, enjoying the sensation.

“I really like that,” Tavaris purred, when they drew apart. “Kissing you, I mean. But we are almost there.”

He took his hand and pulled him between thick bushes which — surprise — hid another path. Just as they stepped clear of them, they found themselves on a tiny beach located on a bend of the stream.

The moon shone bright already, making the place almost as light as if it was a day. Tavaris laid his bow and quiver carefully on the huge stone near the stream and started to undress quickly, laying his clothes and armour in a neat pile by the stone. Zevran looked at him disbelievingly.

The view was wonderful, he had to admit, looking at the lean lines of the hunter’s body, but he wasn’t sure if he felt like taking off his armor in the middle of this forest. Tavaris looked at him amused.

“What are you waiting for?” He asked with a slight smile. “I can’t save you from the mosquitoes if you are clothed.”

“In my experience they usually have much more problems with a leather cuirass than with my own skin,” Zevran grumbled, looking once again at the black wall of trees behind him.

Tavaris smirked, waiting for him with hands on his hips. Considering that he lost his virginity just a night before he was astonishingly relaxed naked - but then, it was probably a Dalish thing. Zevran remembered vaguely some naked group bathing from that brief time when he escaped, but connected it rather with children. Never mind the reason — now he found it rather interesting, even if he had trouble forgetting about the haunting forest around.

“Don’t worry, _ma_ _’nehn_ ,” Tavaris called out from the water. “There’s a gurgut nest downstream and the bogfishers are getting out to feed up the river. We’ll at least be warned if anything approached.”

“Is that supposed to calm me down?” Zevran asked incredulously. He had no idea what bogfishers were, but he remembered gurguts to be rather unpleasant beasts. Tavaris just laughed, diving in the stream and splashing around with joy.

Finally the assassin decided that he preferred to join the hunter than wait for forest beasts on the bank and started to slowly strip off his armour. His young lover watched him with a smile and soon his neutral “watching” evolved into shameless ogling. Zevran smirked. That actually took some edge of his nerves.

“So, here I am, completely naked,” he declared, turning to Tavaris with a lewd smile. The Dalish blushed a bit and bit his lower lip.

“You are beautiful, you know?” The younger elf looked at him intensely, swallowing as he approached. Now, that they were naked, nothing could hide his interest.

Zevran smiled.

“So I’ve been told,” he answered, pulling Tavaris into an embrace. The Dalish breathed loudly as their bodies met, already half-aroused just from looking. Zevran cupped his chin and kissed him deeply, feeling both of them stiffen. “But you are rather fetching yourself,” he murmured, looking deep into the grey eyes. Tavaris blushed and Zevran pressed his tight between the hunter’s legs, which earned him a sharp gasp. The assassin smiled wolfishly and run the tip of his tongue along the Dalish’s ear, feeling sleek hands clasping on his arms, as the younger elf shivered.

“Zevran… Water, now,” the Warden whispered, voice already rough. “The salve isn’t going to apply itself, and we have to be back before Morrigan decides to put her wards on.”

“And here I thought that you took me away to do lots of indecent things to me,” he murmured, grazing the hunter’s jaw gently with his teeth before parting, then with a disappointed sigh let him go.

Tavaris shuddered, eyes darkened with arousal. A quite remarkable one, even in Zevran’s experienced eyes.

“Later maybe?” He offered shyly. “I’m not really averse to the idea.” He smiled sheepishly, guiding Zevran to the water.

“I hope so,  _querido_.” The assassin agreed without much joy.

The water wasn’t really cold, but it was much brisker than Zevran cared for. His young lover was, however, adamant.

“The  _nissane_  salve spreads the best on the wet skin,” he explained, as the assassin protested loudly. “And, besides, the water isn’t so bad.”

The stream was here deep enough to swim, and so, after forcing Zevran to rinse himself, Tavaris dived enthusiastically and emerged over a dozen yards further, splashing like a young otter. Zevran rolled his eyes and swam in his direction, trying to keep a miffed expression; but then, the hunter’s joy was so pure that the older elf couldn’t really hold it against him.

“Someone has told me that we should hurry,” he said, smirking, as he reached the Dalish. Tavaris looked at him guiltily.

“Yes… But I haven’t really swum since I’ve been taken by Grey Wardens… I just couldn’t resist.”

Zevran wished he could be annoyed — not only they were in the middle of completely unnerving forest, but he was also rejected, despite being already worked up — just because his lover preferred a swim. But then, Tav’s glee was contagious, so he just splashed water on the boy’s face, with a lopsided smile.

“I must be losing my edge if you prefer swimming to my company.”

The hunter bit his lip. “I wouldn’t enjoy this half as much if it weren’t for your company,” he confessed timidly. Zevran smirked, reaching for the Warden’s cheek and stroking it gently.

“But you know, that my assets are best used somewhere where we can at least stand?”

Tav looked at him with a coy expression.

“So how about that: we get the salve now, and then you’ll show me these assets?”

Arainai gave him a devious grin.

“I’m game.”

They raced to the shore, but Tavaris swam like an otter — and while Zevran could swim well enough, he was no match to the Dalish ranger. As he reached their destination, Mahariel was already leaning against the stone on which he left his weapon, grinning madly.

“One could think, that there’s no water in Antiva, judging by your swimming,” he teased. The assassin laughed quietly, looking at the Warden sprawled against the rock with delight.

“Oh, we just prefer it hot in a tub, my dear wild thing,” he answered, wringing the water from his hair, as he approached.

Tavaris’ wet body glimmered in the moonshine, the soft light emphasizing strong, wiry muscles of the Warden. Mahariel was small, but also really shapely and proportional; the powerful build of his arms and shoulders, rock-hard abdomen and athletic lines of his legs showed clearly that he was no weakling, despite his petite frame. Zevran saw this earlier, but until now he hadn’t really had an opportunity to watch him like that — the tent, in which they made love previous night was simply too small to allow him this kind of completely uninterrupted observation. The Warden’s cock — which he studied earlier rather devoutly — while not extremely big, was one of the few parts of the small elf that couldn’t been really described as tiny; and it definitely bulged when Zevran came closer.

Quite a catch, the Antivan decided, kneeling over his young lover and kissing briefly his lips.

“You like what you see?” Tavaris asked with a self-satisfied smile.

The assassin chuckled.

“My, my, someone got cocky,” he answered tracing his fingers along tattoos on Mahariel’s sides. The young elf gasped, biting his lip and pulled Zevran into a passionate kiss — which was probably a little less refined than the assassin would like, but very, very enthusiastic.

The boy reached for the jar, sitting nearby on the ground, and opened it, without breaking the kiss. In mere moments Zevran felt a warm touch on his chest, as the Warden spread the salve. The aroma was familiar — after a few seconds the assassin realized, that it was the same smell, albeit much stronger, that filled the Warden’s tent and lingered on his skin constantly. He caught a breath and then moved his mouth down, along the hunter’s throat, making the young elf gasp. Despite the distraction, Tavaris didn’t falter, methodically applying the salve wherever he could reach, with soft, tender strokes.

When Zevran traced his tongue around  Warden’s stiff nipple, however, his young lover moaned and pushed him away.

_“Fenedhis_ , Zevran!” He breathed heavily. “Please, let’s apply the salve, and then you can do whatever you want with me, Morrigan’s wards be damned.”

The assassin moved away a bit and leered at his lover.

“You realize, I’m going to hold you to that?” He asked with a smirk.

Tavaris sighed loudly, propping himself on his elbows.

“I’m rather counting on it,” he admitted with a slight smile.

Zevran gave his partner a lopsided smile, pulling him up and reaching for the jar.

“Let’s get over with it quickly, then,” he said kissing Tavaris briefly and swiftly massaging the salve into his skin.

It didn’t take long after that. Soon both of them were slightly sticky with the ointment, and while they were waiting for it to dry off, they slowly returned to interrupted activities. Tavaris was already writhing under Zevran’s touch, panting heavily and almost begging for more, when he stiffened suddenly. Zevran looked at him from between his tights, concerned.

“What’s wrong,  _querido_?” He asked, freezing in place.

The Warden opened his eyes with a frenzied look.

“Darkspawn,” he whispered. “Getting close, fast.”

They scrambled quickly for their clothes and weapons. They were too late. Tavaris was still slipping into his woven cuirass, the leather leg protectors laying close on the ground, and Zevran was trying to buckle his own chest piece, his boots still on the ground, when first genlock rushed to the clearing. The Warden grabbed his bow and send an arrow — not into the darkspawn, but high in the air, where it suddenly caught brightly burning flame.

“There’s too much of them, run!” He ordered Zevran, grabbing his arm and pushing him through the bushes they passed when they came there. The assassin saw only two genlocks before his lover nudged him into shrubs, but the ranger’s touch was unrelenting.

The escape was difficult. The forest was pitch-black and the assassin discovered that he had to rely on the hunter’s senses. Without the sleek arm guiding him, he would break a leg as soon as they started to run. The threat was significant enough that he considered tapping into the skills he kept hidden from his company so far, but that was, unfortunately out of the question, as long as nobody around him was hurt.

Somehow, despite complete darkness and the assassin clinging to him desperately, the Warden managed to send a few arrows behind them, and from the sounds and the pull of the tainted blood on his strained senses the Antivan deduced that at least some of them found their targets. Still, the pursuit was closing on them, and Zevran started to reach out for the blood he could feel gushing from the wounds somewhere behind him; the loud steps and roaring suggested that the party was indeed a sizable one. When he discovered in despair that he couldn’t get a good grasp on the substance that was more Taint and ichor than proper blood,  he saw the light of the campfire through the trees.

Mahariel saw it too, and pushed Zevran forward with new desperation, sending his few remaining arrows into the chasing band.

They run into the clearing, panting heavily, almost falling into the fire.

“Morrigan, wards!” Tavaris wheezed, slumping on his knees.

The witch raised her staff, which glowed brightly, and suddenly the area around their little camp shone with thousands of magic symbols. The chasing darkspawn bounced of the invisible wall, and Zevran suddenly felt dizzy at the sight of an ogre roaring behind the ring of wards. Tavaris looked at him, pale as a corpse and shuddered.

Morrigan, her staff down, glared at them with disdain, taking in their dishevelled appearance.

“Oh, don’t tell me that they caught you with your pants down,” she admonished. “That’s something, even for you.”

Tavaris shoot Zevran a desperate glance.

“We won’t hear the end of it, will we?” He groaned.

 

 

The darkspawn paced around them for a long time. Few hours they spent observing the creatures, and when the lights of the wards burned down, Morrigan declared that the creatures could no longer see their party. Some of them left soon enough, but some lingered longer, sniffing like they could smell them despite their cloak. Finally Tavaris sighed.

“They must feel me, Morrigan. I still feel their presence around us. Is there any way to hide me?”

The witch glared at him.

“To hide you I would have to exhaust myself so much that you’d have to carry me tomorrow. And I believe that you will need me — first, to retrieve what is left of your equipment, then most probably to cut our way back to the main camp because you couldn’t keep your pants on your arses.”

Tavaris scoffed.

“We went to wash ourselves. Usually it requires taking off the clothes.”

“Usually when on hostile territory one should get their priorities straight. You should have waited with that until we return.” Sten wasn’t too talkative or prone to emotions, but this time he seemed to be angry too.

“You wouldn’t die from some sweat. But you most definitely could die from your washing.” The witch’s grimace showed clearly that she wasn’t fooled by Warden’s declarations of their innocent motivation. Zevran sighed, deciding that he had to come to his lover’s aid.

“I could perfectly well die. Tavaris shared with me some salve protecting from insects. You’ll never know what could bite me during the night without it.”

“You won’t find so poisonous insect in these parts,” she commented tartly. “They are more of an annoyance; and besides, you could do it before we left for the deep forest. You’ve spend long enough on fussing over Tavaris’ hair. You could have find time for applying a salve.”

“I needed it in order,” Tav answered wearily, tugging at his braid in a irrationally protective gesture.

Both the elves knew that they were responsible for their current situation, and Zevran saw that this awareness gnawed on his lover deeply, but they had also enough of the glares and silent accusations.

“Morrigan, will your wards hold till morning?” Asked the Warden. Morrigan grimaced.

“They will hold at least two days, provided that no one will leave the circle.”

“Great. In this case we forgo keeping watch. And I don’t know about you — but I’m going to sleep.”

Zevran fully agreed with the hunter, so when Tavaris wrapped himself in his cloak he lay beside him, covering both of them with the blanket. The Warden shyly cuddled against him, a little ball of heat, and Zevran soon embraced him, grateful for the shared warmth. The night was rather chilly and he had definitely less clothes than he planned before.

But then, as soon as the hunter fell asleep for good, he started to stir nervously in Zevran’s arms, whimper and sob.

Morrigan, still awake, shrugged indifferently, as the Antivan looked at her with the question in his eyes.

“A Warden thing,” she said flatly. “Maybe he’ll explain, if he feels like that.”

After a moment she added. “If you want to get any rest, I recommend moving away from him. You can’t do anything with that and he will cry until it wakes him.”

“And could  _you_  help?” Zevran asked sharply.

Morrigan shrugged again.

“Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, I won’t babysit the Wardens every time they get their nightmares.”

Zevran didn’t move away.

 

The witch’s diagnosis proved correct. The young Warden was trashing the whole night in his embrace, sobbing, wailing and whining until a sharp cry from his own throat jerked him awake. None of them was rested and Tav scolded him from that, but the assassin excused himself with his need of warmth. Placated, the Warden laid in his arms for a while, trembling, then got up, swiftly packing their tiny camp. Morrigan watched him with disdain and Sten was already fastening his harness. Zevran didn’t feel like getting up, but somehow he didn’t believe he would be allowed more sleep. He wasn’t wrong.

“Get up,” Mahariel ordered tartly, cutting the slice of the previous night’s roast and tossing it to Zevran before he even managed to sit. Even with his dexterity he barely managed to catch the meat before it landed in pine needles and fallen leaves.

“Breakfast to bed?” the Antivan commented, yawning. “You’re spoiling me,  _querido_.”

Tavaris shot him unamused look.

“Really, Zev. We need to fix the mess we made yesterday. Besides, I need to clean my teeth and I left my  _assithe_  by the stream. If these things tainted it in any way I’m going to kill someone.  _Dirthvir-ma_.” He spat.

The corner of the Morrigan’s mouth curved slightly.

“Oh, that’s a great notion, Warden,” she commented, and Zevran felt slightly annoyed that he was missing something.

The hunter shot her a murderous look.

“You’re enjoying it too much.”

“I believe I earned something by saving you both from the results of your impressing inanity,” she bit back. “It’s a dark time for the Ferelden, indeed, to have to rely on fools like Alistair and you.”

Tavaris pursed his lips.

“I probably should be grateful that you still mention Alistair on the first place.”

“Maybe it’s just a matter of habit,” she smiled at him waspishly.

Zevran rose to his feet, biting at the cold meat.

“Are you two going to bicker whole day, or maybe we should pack and move?” He asked, annoyed and picking up the one dagger he managed to salvage last evening from the beach.

“Because I would like to check if my favourite dagger is still available.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes.

“And look who is responsible now,” she commented dryly. “Maybe we should let go only two of you, so you could finish what you started.”

“Enough,” Tavaris snapped. “Morrigan, you’ve had your fun, now eat the rest of your food and we’re moving. Or you can go back to your mother, for all I care. Just shut up.”

Mahariel without a word took the blanket from Zevran, rolling it even more tightly than the day before.

On the outside the Warden looked like he was simply angry, but when he packed, the assassin noticed trembling of his hands and slightly bewildered look, when he thought no one was looking.

“Let me do it,” Zevran took the blanket from the ranger, tying it securely to the back of his belt. As he bent to check if the added package didn’t restrict his movements too much, he brushed hand of his lover, who still sat crouched, his eyes closed for a moment.

“What’s wrong,  _querido_?” He asked quietly, hoping Morrigan won’t notice. Mahariel clenched his teeth and without the word motioned to the empty quiver fastened on his belt. “I’ve lost my dagger too,” he whispered. “I’ve got only a small knife.”

“We can sneak there,” Zevran assured calmly. “And if the need arises we can sneak to the main camp too”.

Tavaris winced.

“Yes, I guess. But it doesn’t always work.”

Zevran knew that and he felt a cold shiver. He had no idea how much he grew to rely on the bow of their leader; it was completely irrational, as between Morrigan’s magic, Sten’s axe and his own skills they were still a powerful team. The hunter’s prowess with the bow was almost absurd, that was true, but Morrigan was a formidable force on her own, Sten was a beast with his axe and Zevran fancied himself a rather good fighter, especially for an assassin. They could shield the Warden perfectly well until he got new arrows.

He tugged gently the strand of stray hair behind Tav’s ear. Tavaris winced slightly.

Behind them Morrigan cleared her throat. Thankfully she hadn’t uttered a single word.

“Just keep back for now,” Zevran whispered. “I’m going to watch your every step.” He smiled, but his smile was a little strained. He understood the problem — he himself would be scared shitless if he found himself without any weapon. The incomplete armour bothered him enough.

 

The short trip to the tiny beach was uneventful. Tavaris almost relaxed, especially that Zevran kept on his back, watching for any trouble as carefully as his anxious lover.

Unfortunately, the trek hasn’t changed their situation much. The few things left there were trampled and destroyed — Zevran’s boots shredded into pieces, barely wearable, one of Mahariel’s leg protectors torn in half, another caught on a log in the stream and completely soaked and misshaped. The rest was either trampled into the ground or nowhere to be seen; that included Tav’s satchel with herbs as well as the broken jar of the bug-repelling salve. The ranger took the view in with a grim expression and crouched to dig a broken arrow from the sand.

“To the main camp, then,” he decided gloomily. “It seems that this little pleasure will cost us in gold as well as in time.”

He regarded the arrow with a grimace, then tore off the broken part and tucked the destroyed missile under his belt. It wasn’t much of a weapon.

They turned back in dark moods, without their usual banter or audacity. It was probably for the best as they managed to hear the werewolves before they attacked them from two sides. The place was terrible: a narrow ravine in which there wasn’t really space to avoid the attackers. They were clearly aiming mostly for Tavaris, and Zevran found himself in a tight spot, as he got pinned to the ravine’s wall by one of the beasts, watching helplessly as Tavaris danced, evading with difficulty the enormous jaw of the werewolf. It was obvious that while the monsters didn’t really care for the rest of their group, they were bent on biting the Dalish.

Tavaris must have noticed it too, as he wheezed, ducking another try:

“I’m tainted!,” and then, as he fell on the ground, rolling to escape another snap of the terrifying teeth: “You don’t want my blood!”

One of the beasts which weren’t really involved in fight because the lack of targets and confined space roared loudly.

“Liar! The Taint makes bodies rot, and your flesh is perfectly fresh.”

As Tavaris shouted loudly “I’m a Grey Warden!,” the werewolf finally managed to catch his victim’s thigh. The shout transformed into a pained cry and Zevran’s lover bended in half, howling in agony. At the same time Morrigan’s ice blast exploded around them, throwing back and wounding the beasts. The leader of the pack roared loudly and suddenly the monsters disappeared, leaping on the ravine’s walls and disappearing in the deep forest.

Zevran leaped to the injured Warden, worried sick. The Dalish writhing in agony in the elven infirmary came to his mind immediately. And then, as an afterthought, came the realization that a cursed Warden won’t be much of a help against the Crows.

Tavaris, deathly pale, scrambled on his feet, bend it half to put a pressure on the wounded leg.

“I guess we don’t have much time to get rid of this curse,” he murmured, his face twisted in pain. Morrigan hurried to his side, already weaving a spell.

“I have no idea how this curse works. But if it spreads through the blood maybe I can slow it a bit by freezing the wound, Warden” she said calmly. The young hunter nodded tersely.

“Do it. And stop the bleeding, if you can.”

The blast of magic was quick, but painfully bright. As it faded, Tav’s leg was frosted, and the elf was shivering.

“There will be a lot of healing, if I get through this,” he commented sourly, taking a big breath.

“If it makes you feel better, I haven’t heard of a darkspawn turned werewolf. Or werewolf-ish darkspawn,” Morrigan said sharply. Tavaris gave her a pained smile.

“You know, it actually helps.”

Zevran raised his brow, unsure what to make from this odd conversation, but decided he wasn’t sure if he was ready to know. Instead he offered the Warden his arm, wrapping it around his waist in an attempt to steady him.

The Dalish almost jumped at the contact and drawled quietly: “let me go.”

The Antivan looked at him incredulously.

_“Mi_ _querido_ , you barely can stand,” he scolded gently the hunter. “You could use some help.”

The ranger’s jaw tensed in a stubborn grimace.

“I’m fine,” he said, despite the fact that his voice told entirely different story and his leg almost gave up under him. “I’ll go on my own.”

 

Tavaris was too stubborn for his own good. He walked slowly, head held high, paler with each step. Until he just couldn’t — and collapsed helplessly to the ground.

“The curse seems to be rather virulent,” Morrigan commented. Her voice was indifferent, as usual, but behind her uncaring demeanour Zevran sensed something more; a nervousness she didn’t want to show. “I believe we have to get used to the thought we are one Warden down.”

Zevran felt cold shivers down his spine.

“Oh, I won’t agree to that. As it happens I desperately need this Warden,” he informed her, picking unconscious Tavaris from the ground. The boy wasn’t heavy, but the assassin huffed quietly, throwing him over his shoulder.

“We should leave him to the wolves,” she grimaced. “He won’t be useful anymore, and you’re slowing us down.”

Zevran shot her a murderous look, to see that despite her comments Morrigan had an expression of genuinely concerned person.

“I’m going to pretend I haven’t heard that, my dear,” he answered, fixing his grip on the young Dalish. Sten looked at him and frowned.

“It’s true it’s your duty to take your  _kadan_  to the camp,  _bas_. But since you’re both of the size of the fleas and that the Warden should be in the camp soon, I will take him in your stead,” he said to Zevran — probably the longest sentence he ever uttered in the Antivan’s direction.

The assassin scowled, but stopped.

“I can’t say I find the description accurate, but fine. With heavy heart and much lighter arms I will part with our fearless leader.” He allowed Sten to take Tavaris, watching nervously how the giant tossed the elf over his shoulders.

“Careful,” he tssked, seeing that the Qunari caught the small man by the wounded leg.

“He’s unconscious. He doesn’t feel it.” The Qunari shrugged.

Zevran groaned quietly.

“But he will,” he persisted. The ox-man apparently didn’t think this was important.

“We better hurry,” he answered calmly.

Seeing that any argument was futile, Zevran agreed grumpily to Sten’s suggestion, running quietly to scout ahead. He couldn’t really hope to be half as good in that as Tavaris was, but figured that it would be better if he was attacked first, giving Sten time to prepare for the fight. Fortunately for the elf, they reached the camp without any problems.

 

The camp, however, was full of problems. They laid Tavaris down in his own tent — Zathrian wanted to get him to the infirmary, but didn’t want to agree to the outsiders roaming around the elven camp, which was unacceptable for both Zevran and Alistair. Instead, Zathrian or his First came to him once in a while, pouring impossible amount of herbal teas into the unconscious elf. Zevran was sitting close by, observing the Dalish, and the rest of the camp was full of endless bickering.

“Oh, stop barking at me already, Alistair,” he heard agitated Morrigan. “For one last time — it’s their own damn fault, not mine. Why don’t you go bother someone else? Your favorite assassin for example?”

“Sure, I’ll go and talk to him too, I promise,” answered the Warden. “But why did you let them to go there alone?”

“Oh, because you could allow Tavaris anything. Or forbid, if we are speaking like that. I believed you have met the man.”

“Yes, I’ve met him, and I have noticed that he loses his mind when it comes to that damned murderer. Now, that they had…” Alistair’s cheeks went red. “Now more than ever,” he finished lamely, but Morrigan was already talking.

“Well, I thought he was responsible enough to keep his Antivan flame from being eaten. It’s not like I have this whole warden-sense.”

Zevran sighed, massaging his temple.

“He actually did save me from being eaten,” he interrupted, too tired to manage his usual, flowery speech. “It was us who couldn’t save him.”

He felt guilty — not a feeling he was accustomed to, and not one which he enjoyed. But then the idea dawned on him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to find that wolf the Dalish are talking about,” he said, gathering his equipment. “That curse is supposed to be breakable, after all.”

 


	7. The Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party goes back into Brecilian, this time without the feverish Tavaris - heavily edited!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25th May 2017
> 
> Here we are, with another upgraded chapter. I don't think much of the old version is left, maybe except for the bare bones. Since the next chapter is a massive one too, I'm going to publish it a day after tomorrow.

The rest of their party accepted Zevran’s leadership without any problems, which was something he didn’t expect at all. Sten and Morrigan seemed indifferent, Leliana, surprisingly, gave him numerous smiles in a feeble attempt to encourage him. And Alistair… Alistair apparently hated making decisions even more than he hated Zevran, and he quietly submitted to his orders. The former Crow wasn’t sure if it was the best idea on their part, but since it led to search for the cure, he wouldn’t complain even if he felt slightly out of sorts in this situation.

The surroundings were completely alien for him and the mission wasn’t of a kind he was used to. Give him cobblestones under his feet and a target to kill —  he would do it and he would do it well. Forests, curses, furry beasts an giant spiders —  that definitely wasn’t his cup of tea. For this reason he kept Morrigan close — the Witch knew what she was doing here, and probably was the only one, even if Sten’s stone face didn’t show much of the loss visible in Alistair’s and Leliana’s eyes.

Alright, it’s not any different than leading a strike team of Crows, Zevran told himself, gathering his scattered thoughts. It was difficult to do it with Mahariel loudly thrashing in the background, but they needed the plan to get past the barrier — Morrigan couldn’t do it on her own, and there was that talking tree that promised a key… Zevran’s head hurt from even thinking about it. But it seemed to be the best plan they had, so he turned to Morrigan.

“Are you able to find that mage who stole that… acorn?” He asked, hoping for the best. They couldn’t really waste the time on searching some lunatic hidden in the woods, but then, they didn’t have any sensible alternative.

Morrigan tapped her chin thoughtfully.

“I should be,” she answered after a short while. “Nothing sure, I’d say, and it’s not Korcari where I could commune with the spirits of the forest itself… But I should be able to ask around, even if they don’t know me here.”

Zevran decided it would be smarter not to ask whom she wanted to ask, precisely. He just nodded, deciding that it was the best answer he could get.

“Alright, then let’s go,” he stole a glance at the feverish Warden, who trashed on his bedroll, supported by the First… Lanaya was her name, if he remembered right — who was trying to force some potion down his throat. Before he even realized, he was asking: “Take care of him, alright?”

The woman looked up at him and smiled sadly.

“We’ll try our best,” she promised. “And he’s strong… But he doesn’t have long.”

He nodded his acknowledgement and turned away, prodded slightly by Leliana’s hand on his shoulder.

He asked Morrigan to take the lead — since she was the only one with a reasonable chance of finding the blasted acorn — which left him with too much time to think. So he thought. About his boots, that he’d gotten from the Dalish and that were nowhere as comfortable as the pair he lost the day before. About the shop in Antiva City where he bought the previous pair and the tanneries of Calle de Curtidores. About Rinna and her laugh and the differences between it and Tav’s shy smiles. Well, he shut that train of thought as quickly as it appeared, but it made him think about Tavaris and the bile in his throat that got sharper every time he realized the perilous situation the Warden found himself in.

He had to face it. He was scared about losing his ticket to freedom, his shield against the Crows, but he was also worried about the younger man as a person. Tavaris was an enjoyable lover, but also a genuinely decent — if extremely naive — person and probably one of the few people that ever came closer to feel as his friends. Which was pretty awkward, given how short have they known each other. Still, the fact was that he somehow wormed himself under Zevran’s defences and the assassin realized that seeing him gone would hurt.

The realization was so startling that the assassin lost his footing on the loose stone and almost fell face first onto the ground.

“Look where you step, you fool,” snapped Morrigan, catching his arm and saving him from a disgraceful fall. Zevran swallowed and looked up at her with a charming smile on his face.

“You cannot blame me for getting distracted when I walk next to such a tempting woman,” he quipped. The witch raised one of her brows in a doubtful expression.

“Oh, I can and I will.”

“For getting lost in these lascivious curves?” Zevran asked with a feigned outrage, making a wavy gesture with his hands.

Morrigan scoffed.

“You’re gonna get lost in that forest if you keep pissing me off, so better drop it.”

“So beautiful and so cruel,” the assassin sighed. “You really won’t let me adore you, even from the distance?”

“You’ve got your own, half-dead Warden to think of,” she shrugged. “I can’t imagine Mahariel would be happy to learn that the very second he was incapacitated you started to pester other people.”

Zevran shrugged. “We’re searching for the cure for him right now, yes? So, I feel devoted enough. Besides, he wouldn’t blame me for enjoying myself along the way!”

“He’s Dalish. I wouldn’t be surprised if he considered you his husband already,” she observed calmly, raising her staff and closing her eyes. Zevran laughed boisterously.

“Oh, no, no, no. We have already explained that issue to each other! We enjoy each other’s company, that’s true, but he doesn’t have any wish to make it more than it is. Just a companionship of convenience. A bed-warming adventure. Nothing more.”

“If you say so…” Morrigan answered dubiously, concentrating on some mysterious wisps of magic, or whatever she did. “This way.” She turned into another almost invisible path and they followed, passing the shrubbery that grew past their heads in a thick wall.

“Oh, I do say…” Zevran’s declaration was interrupted by Alistair, clearing his throat.

“Could you not? We’ve got some darkspawn ahead. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t attract them with your chatting.”

Zevran fell silent. Not for long. He couldn’t stand the thoughts that came unbidden when he wasn’t distracted.

“So, Leliana, I get it that you aren’t interested in getting a piece of this,” he waved his hands in an exaggerated gesture pointing at his body. “Though I can’t really fathom why. Is that because you prefer feminine charms?”

The bard sighed, looking at him with a tired expression.

“I don’t really think like that, Zevran. I don’t mind women, but I have nothing against men either. It’s just that…” She exhaled loudly and shook her head. “You’re not my type, Zevran, that’s it.”

“Not an elven lover?” He suggested, fishing for information. Leliana, unexpectedly, turned red.

“I like elves…” she said quietly. “At least some of them. But I prefer my lovers… Well, to take things more seriously, for one.”

“Oh, my dear, but I can be very serious!” He exclaimed, feigning offence. “Especially when it comes to lovemaking. And… well… Assassinating things.”

“Zevran, for the love of Andraste, would you just shut up?” Alistair asked angrily. “I told you, we’re getting close to darkspawn. I believe it would be better for us to _avoid_ the pack, not to _attract_ it.”

“Fine, fine,” Zevran relented, but then his curiosity rose. “How does it work anyway? It’s just that you, or Mahariel, stop suddenly and tell in these grave voices ‘darkspawn ahead’, but how do you even know? It’s sometimes a hour or so before we run into a band and it’s not like you can see or hear them from the distance... So?”

“Warden secret,” Alistair answered through the clenched teeth. “And I promise you, these aren’t so far. So would you mind shutting up before I wring your skinny neck?”

“So domineering,” Zevran purred. “I must admit I’m very partial to a strong men who can show me my place. Are you volunteering?”

Just like the assassin expected, the Warden flushed red, taking a step back and almost knocking his teeth out as he fell over a root sticking out from the ground.

“Andraste, no!” He protested, his eyes wide in a mixture of fear and outrage. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you, elf. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Zevran, enough,” Morrigan cut in. “You’re both going to be toads if I have to listen to that insufferable squabbling any more.”

Zevran looked over Alistair’s shoulder, preparing another witty answer, when he blanched slightly.

“Speaking of the toads… Could you start with them?” He asked, pointing the hurlocks climbing the small hill just meters away.

He barely managed to duck to avoid the ice missile Morrigan send their way, all the while looking straight at the assassin with a displeased expression on her face.

Zevran could take a hint. He swallowed and drew his blades, turning around and sprinting in the direction of the Blighted creatures.

Fortunately, there weren’t many of them and they managed to dispose of them swiftly. Zevran was still cleaning his leathers of the tainted matter when Morrigan tossed her staff above her head again, just to open her eyes after a short moment.

“Apparently, the thief we seek hides there,” she pointed at the shallow valley just on the other side of the hill. Zevran couldn’t see anything special about it, but then, the thief was supposed to be a mage. Who knew what kind of defenses he had in place.

“Is it safe to approach?” He asked, focusing on the task at hand. “I mean, I doubt he’ll be overly friendly, but are we going to get blown to bits just from entering the valley or..?”

“From what I can sense there’s nothing more but some illusion magic there; the kind that fools your eyes.” Morrigan shrugged. “But, of course, he still may be much more powerful spellcaster than meself and there might be unspeakable traps hidden behind it; ones I cannot detect even when tugging at the Veil or glimpsing into Beyond.” She didn’t seem particularly perturbed by this possibility.

Alistair looked at her with horrified expression. Zevran cocked his head, studying her face carefully. There was some kind of teasing in her eyes, maybe a tiny challenge, a subdued amusement of a person who had fun at other people’s expense. While she wasn’t technically lying — the assassin was pretty sure that there was always a risk of stumbling upon a foe too powerful to handle — she didn’t seem to believe that was the case.

“You’re not telling us everything, _bella_ , but you’re saying things that have no need to be said,” he observed. Morrigan shrugged, not really looking at him. Zevran exhaled, slightly annoyed. He wouldn’t even bother, but they needed Alistair with all his meagre wits upon him, not too scared to fight.

“Allow me to rephrase,” he started again. “You don’t believe the thief to be as powerful as you say and the only reason you said so was to watch our remaining Warden squirm.” That caught her attention, enough for her to look at him briefly, but she still hadn’t said anything. Zevran was a patient man, but that was starting to get on his nerves. They didn’t really have time for the games right now. Mahariel…

He cut off this train of thought and tried again.

“While usually I would enjoy confusing Alistair as much as the next man, don’t you think…”

“…I think he’s powerful alright, fine?” She interrupted him, looking at the valley with a slight disdain. “He’s very close to the Beyond. Too close, one could even say.” She finally turned to look at the elf with a shadow of smirk on her face. “But he lacks control, I’m inclined to believe. If it comes to fight… Well, it’s going to be…” She pursed her mouth, searching for a right description. “Explosive. But I believe I should be able to contain that as long as y’all do your jobs.”

“Here,” Zevran turned to Alistair. “Better now?”

Apparently it was not.

“Lacks control?” Alistair turned almost white. “Are you trying to say that we might end up with an abomination at our hands, Witch?”

“I thought we’re all abominations in making, Chantry Boy,” Morrigan shot back, slowly starting her descent into the valley and not bothering to look at them anymore. “And stop dawdling, last time I recalled we had something to do.”

Zevran allowed himself one indulgent look at her backside. Maker, that woman was magnificent. Had his survival instincts been any weaker, he’d crawl before her to beg her to let him worship her for even one night. What could he say, he was completely devoid of shame, and Morrigan’s golden stare made him shiver in all the best ways.

He moved after her before Alistair could shake off his nerves. She was right. As hypnotic as she was, there was another lovely backside in peril — and he felt personally invested in saving it from growing a tail.

It was a weird feeling. Like seeing mist clearing away when he wasn’t aware of any mist in the first place. Everything seemed sharper for a moment, a little brighter, a little more pronounced — Zevran knew substances that had similar effect on the senses, but with them it lasted long enough to get used to it.

The things that appeared after his sight cleared, though, were more than disappointing. A tree stump and a rickety chest partially obscured by shrubs, a tent that looked as if it hadn’t been used for years and a primitive fireplace with some charred bird corpses hanging over it — and nothing more.

“Hmm… That’s curious…” He heard Morrigan saying, when a movement from the stump caught his attention. Somewhere behind him Leliana gasped quietly in a surprise, as a colourful smoke rose from the fallen tree to form a robed silhouette.

As it materialized it gave shape to an elder man with a bushy beard, who wore a dirt stained, tattered robe. Zevran needed just one look to tell from his crazed eyes that the man was a complete lunatic.

And then the madman started to box the air.

“Uhm,” Alistair cleared his throat anxiously and the Crow, for once, sympathized. He didn’t have a slightest idea how to approach a magic-wielding loon, who didn’t even seem lucid enough to notice people staring at him in bewilderment.

Morrigan shrugged, apparently deciding that her role was over as long as there weren’t any blows exchanged. Sten was standing behind them, just as indifferent as before. Alistair was frozen with fear, not that Zevran expected any creative solution from him. In the end it was Leliana who took the initiative.

“Excuse me, good ser?” She started gingerly. The madman obviously was no ‘ser’, but the assassin figured that it couldn’t hurt to be courteous to a dangerous madman. The man in question suddenly looked at her, stopping his inane dance.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he said, looking at her as if she was an interesting specimen, not a person. “Not a werewolf and not a spirit, even. What are the woods coming to?”

“I just wanted to ask…” She didn’t finished, because the mage tossed his hands into the air, visibly agitated.

“Questions, questions, always questions! They say it was questions that drove me mad! But I’d love to do the same!” He paused for a moment, loudly smacking his lips together in an expression that was at once thoughtful and disgusting. “Yes! Ask a question and you’ll receive a question. Give an answer and you’ll get the same! Oh! But I love to trade!”

Leliana was quiet for a second, mulling over his words.

“You… Want me to answer a question?” She finally asked.

“Wouldn’t I have to ask you a question first?” He exclaimed, pulling at his beard in an outrage. Leliana swallowed.

“Isn’t that a question itself?” She tried, attempting to get a feel of the rules of the odd game. Zevran almost pitied her but that feeling was dampened by the sheer relief at the fact that it wasn’t _him_ who had to navigate that peculiar conversation. For a moment he was afraid he’d have to.

“Would you even know a question if it was asked?” The man snapped and Zevran tasted a faint hint of ozone in the air. He wasn’t, of course, as sensitive to it as a mage would be, but given the certain… processes he had to undergo as a part of his Crow initiation he was able to sense the magic coiling around the lunatic much better than most non-magic users.

Leliana, obviously, couldn’t taste it the way he could, but it didn’t mean she was blind to the danger.

“I… would certainly hope so…?” She offered carefully, tilting her voice slightly so the phrase would have the proper, question-like sound.

Apparently, it wasn’t enough, as the man waved his hands over his head and the taste of ozone thickened.

“No, that’s not a question at all! And even if it was an answer, it was an answer to a question I didn’t ask! It’s not fair, bringing me to a guessing game!”

“Careful, now,” Morrigan warned lowly and, in the assassin’s opinion, completely unnecessarily; Leliana was already tense like a bowstring. “He’s quite powerful, don’t rile him.”

Tattered hermit ignored the mage, his attention fully on Leliana as he asked with a waspish undertone in his voice, “Will you play by the rules or not?”

“Then… Would you like to ask me a question?” The bard asked cautiously. The mage creased his nose in disgust. At least the ozone sting in the air didn’t change its depth.

“I think it’s your turn to ask, is it not?”

Alistair shifted nervously at the assassin’s back and Zevran raised one of his hands in a calming command. He didn’t look back at the human, focused on the scene in the front of him, but hoped he’d take the hint for once. They could attack the madman, sure, and there was a good chance they’d succeed, but every skirmish came with its risks. If they could manage to get what they needed without risking injuries and tiring themselves, all the better. Zevran was convinced they would have to blood their blades before returning to Tavaris anyway.

Leliana weighted her words for a while.

“Have you by any accident came into a possession of a certain acorn?” She asked. “The Old Oak’s acorn, to be precise.”

“Ah, suddenly it all becomes clear!” The old man exclaimed, something about his tone making Zevran grab the hilts of his weapons and let himself slowly fade into the shadows in a preparation for a fight. Fortunately, the wild mage didn’t make a move yet, simply continuing his rant and sending particles of spit flying around.

Zevran tuned the conversation out at this point, instead focusing on the madman’s body language and the ozone-tasting air, watching aptly for any signs of aggression.

As tense as he was, he almost lashed out when he saw him move to reach into the tree stump he appeared from. He stopped himself in the very last second seeing an acorn in his hand. Leliana produced a small book from a satchel at her belt and the exchange was made, much to the assassin’s relief.

He was curios, of course, what other things were hidden in the tree stump — lots of garbage, that he was sure, but there might have been some treasures hidden among the trash still. He wasn’t sure, however if risking the lunatic’s wrath would be worth it, so he just stepped forward, letting the shadow slither away from his form and motioned with his head to one of the exits of the valley.

Leliana offered a shaky excuse and backed away slowly, while the hermit shouted after her about her need to report to “Them” whoever “They” might had been. The rest of the group followed, very careful to not make any unnecessary noise that could attract the madman’s attention. With some kind of detached astonishment Zevran observed that even Alistair managed to not stumble over his own legs.

They were a good way out of the hermit’s earshot as they stopped. Zevran looked around, flexing his shoulders minutely to work out the tension that seeped into his muscles during the talk.

“That was intense,” Leliana breathed out, running her hand through her hair in an anxious gesture. Her second hand was still clutched around the acorn.

“I could only imagine how nerve-wracking it was for you, _bella_ ,” the assassin agreed, still tasting the ozone on his tongue. “I hadn’t talked with him and it still was pretty unpleasant experience for me too. That _loco_ was at times too close to snapping for my tastes,” he admitted.

“Hm, ‘tis an interesting thing, you’re saying, Crow,” Morrigan interjected with a thoughtful glint in her eyes. “Was that the inane flailing that made you feel so threatened, or beard pulling, pray tell?”

It was only now that Zevran realized he made a rather serious mistake in his relief; there was nobody in their present company, except for him and Morrigan, who could feel the fluctuations of magic around the hermit. For the rest, none of his gestures would appear more threatening than the others. He might had been looking scary and confusing for them, but there wasn’t a moment when he’d look even _more_ dangerous.

He rushed to cover his misstep. He would do himself a great disservice if he let the witch guess too much.

“Oh, that’s just a healthy response to madmen, _bruja._ Any sensible person would feel threatened by a man whose intents and reasons are unpredictable. Especially if such a man could set one on fire or freeze a brain in their skull.”

Morrigan acknowledged his answer with a small grunt but her eyes were still searching, despite the superfluous concession. Zevran fought to keep his face straight. Did she sense something more? Some marks on his person — he was aware that a thorough magical examination would give away some hints about the meddling he had undergone. Or maybe she felt some of his desperate attempts to stop the darkspawn chase.

He doubted she would give away his secrets — not immediately, at least. But the knowledge of his abilities, of the real nature of the Crow initiation — that was a leverage she could easily use against him if she wished to and he didn’t want to give her such a power over himself. He had to be careful.

“So, let’s take this acorn to its tree, shall we?” He asked with a faked cheerfulness, looking around and cursing inwardly the trees for being completely identical in his eyes. Morrigan — Maker bless her soul, if she even had one — gave him another curious glance, but then pointed discreetly to a path hiding behind a fallen tree.

They’ve made it to the rhyming tree without any further complications. The oak didn’t seem to notice — or maybe care — that it spoke with a different elf this time.

For the assassin it was all fine and well. He got the branch they needed, tossed it to Morrigan and turned away, gently pushing at Leliana’s back, who was still gawking at the tree even after it turned immobile again.

“Come on, belleza. We still have lots of this forest to cover,” he urged her gently.

 

“You’ve got the stick?” Zevran asked several hours later, as they stopped just steps before the passage filled with the unnatural mist. They met some werewolves and darkspawn on their way there, but they weren’t much of a problem. Their ragtag team had already learnt how to fight efficiently together, and even if Leliana’s skills with her bow couldn’t match Tav’s, still it wasn’t troublesome to dispatch few beasts.

The Witch shoot him a venomous look.

“Who do you take me for?” She showed him staff she was using during the trek — exactly the stick in question.

“And are you sure you’d be able to dispel that mist?” He asked, almost sure that the Witch will take offence at this question, but unable to resist: he needed some banter to feel more like himself. The clock was ticking and he was becoming more and more agitated with every passing minute.

Morrigan, indeed seemed offended.

“Do I look to you like some helpless chantry mage? I’ve got a key, I’ve got a door, are you implying I can’t find a lock?”

Zevran raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Forgive me, o fairest of all the free mages. I’m simple man, trained in ways of blade and poison, not in magic. I don’t know how these things work, so I’m asking you, as you obviously do.”

Morrigan snorted, but hadn’t graced him with an answer. When Zevran tried to pick up the chat, she just told him to shut up, as she wanted to listen to the forest. The assassin yielded. She needed to focus and getting this over with was more important than his discomfort.

Morrigan just stood for a moment there, with her eyes closed and focused expression. Then she suddenly widened her legs, thrusting the end of the staff into the ground and started to murmur an incantation in some weird language.

True to her words, the mist parted slowly and Zevran could swear he saw in it tree branches retracting from the road.

“Done,” announced Morrigan in her typical, slightly annoyed voice. Zevran looked into the passage with mixed feelings. Not that he didn’t trust the Witch. Well, he didn’t but that was not the issue here. It was just… He almost fell few times in magic traps and now he was reluctant when it came to this kind of barriers.

“Are we going to be standing here?” Asked Alistair, slightly irritated. The assassin bit his lip slightly before he answered, turning his face to the young Templar with beautiful smile.

“Don’t tell me, Alistair, that you don’t enjoy the occasion to fully appreciate Morrigan’s amazing backside.”

The mage in question grimaced at him.

“You wanted to find the werewolf lair, as I reckon,” she said coldly. “To prevent another backside from sprouting a tail.” As much as he hated to admit it, she was right.

“That doesn’t mean, I can’t admire yours,” he answered halfheartedly. The reality of the situation came back to him with a new force.

They crossed the passage to find themselves in the midst of old elven ruins.

“Tavaris would love it,” Zevran murmured, looking around — not really sure why it was the first thing that came to his mind. And just as he said that he heard familiar bark behind him.

“Indeed, I like it,” Tavaris said quietly, smiling at his surprised companions weakly. He didn’t look well, still sweaty and pale, but nevertheless he stood on his own feet, bow in his hand and quiver at his hip.

“Andraste’s ass! What are you doing here?” The elf exclaimed just as Alistair said: “Sweet Andraste, that’s a miracle!” and Leliana run to the Dalish, wrapping him in a tight hug.

Morrigan lifted one brow looking at the short archer with interest.

“I suspected that something like that might happen — still, you shouldn’t be up anyway,” she said calmly, as if she found him not miles from the camp, but sitting by the fire when he should be in bed.

“Something like what?” Zevran asked, furrowing his brows in concern and catching the small Warden as soon as Leliana let him go. Only for support, he explained to himself, embracing Tavaris gently. The young man blushed slightly, nuzzling the assassin’s neck. The Antivan stroke the hunter’s long braid absentmindedly and looked at Morrigan with question.

“That Warden might briefly overcome this curse. He has already one of his own,” she shrugged, but didn’t offer any more explanations. Apparently she already said too much, because both of the Wardens shot her deathly glares.

“What is she talking about?” He asked Tavaris, cupping his chin and lifting it so he could look in his eyes. His young lover looked really tired and fragile, but there was steel in his eyes, when he answered curtly: “Warden’s business.”

The assassin was still more than interested, but he didn’t pry — he had enough secrets of his own to understand that it wasn’t a way to sate his curiosity. Instead, he just kissed these tired eyes gently. The exhaustion wasn’t a fitting look on the charming hunter.

“Fair enough,” he acquiesced, caressing gently the young man’s face as he studied it carefully. His pupils were blown, his face pallid and covered with a sheer veneer of sweat and he trembled slightly under Zevran’s touch. The assassin suspected that he would shake much more if he wasn’t actively trying to stop it. Alistair coughed.

“Not to interrupt, but have you two heard when Morrigan said ‘briefly’?” He asked, and Tavaris must have decided that it was a good question, since he pressed soft, chaste kiss on Zevran’s lips and pulled away. “Let’s go then.”

“You should come back,” Zevran felt a pang of anxiety when he saw that Tav really wanted to go into the deep forest with them. He couldn’t afford to lose the hunter. There was too much riding on his good will. “Leliana could take you…”

Tavaris scoffed.

“We don’t know what we will meet there. We need numbers. And if I weren’t up to the task, I wouldn’t come.”

Unfortunately the hunter was right and they really didn’t have time to regroup. Tav had to go with them or get back alone. Zevran knew that the hunter knew it as well. And that he was aware that the assassin won’t allow him to go through the forest alone again, even if he might slightly misread his reasons.

“So,  _ma vhenan_ , am I to go back?” He asked, tilting his head. Despite his obvious tiredness he managed a mischievous look in his eyes. He knew the answer.

Zevran let out a weary sigh, searching through his pouches. He had some healing herbs on himself to use as antidotes in case he accidentally poisoned himself — and some of them…

“Like you’d listen if I told you to,” he answered, pulling out a thick root. He cut off a chunk and gave it to Tavaris. “At least, chew on this. It won’t heal you, obviously, but should help with some… symptoms for now.” He wasn’t too happy, giving _pan de cuervo_ to the young man — the drug was potent and the side effects after it wore out were rather unpleasant — but it should give him some of the strength he needed and help with the tremors that made shooting a bow impossible. The sickness later was less important than keeping him alive now.

Morrigan raised her brows, watching as the young elf carelessly popped the herb into his mouth and started to chew as instructed.

“So, an assassin gives you a mysterious root and tells you to eat it, and you just do it?” She asked with a slight amusement in her eyes. “How did you even manage to get to the adulthood?”

“Quite successfully, as you can see,” Tavaris answered, his worlds muffled slightly by the drug in his mouth. “But Zevran’s a friend, how many times do I have to repeat that? He wouldn’t hurt me.”

 _Would_ , but _won_ _’t_ , the assassin thought, but refrained from sharing this observation with the rest, wrapping his arm around the hunter’s hips and giving Morrigan a slightly challenging look. The witch shrugged in a mute ‘fine, get killed if that’s what you want’ expression and Zevran chuckled quietly before leaning into his lover’s ear.

“I need to admit, _hermoso_ , that the root I gave you doesn’t come without a price. You won’t feel too well once its effects wear off. I’ll try to ward it off as long as it’s necessary… But… Just so you know.”

Tavaris nodded, relaxing into his touch.

“I guessed as much, you don’t need to worry about it. But you’re right, I need help if I am to push through. I just hope I’ll be well enough to worry about these aftereffects later.”

“You will be,” Zevran promised, a bit put off by the passion he felt. “We’ll find that wolf and we’ll fix this.”

Tavaris gave him a small, weak smile. It was obvious that the boy seriously doubted any positive outcome; still, he decided to push forward. There was something really admirable about that, even if Zevran didn’t really want to admire the tiny elf any more than he already did.

“Let’s go then.”

As they went deeper through the ruins they encountered little resistance — a group of werewolves stopped them and after a brief exchange scuttled hurriedly back to the entrance to the ruins. Zevran, however, was distracted. He wasn’t sure why he reacted the way he did when he saw the hunter. Well, there was posturing, there was a genuine surprise at the sight of the Dalish out of the bed, sure. And it was obvious that he needed the young elf, so a little dash of anxiety would be understandable. But there were feelings he didn’t like; unexpected tenderness, passionate conviction and the pleasure he felt at the chaste kisses. Sex was sex and, Maferath’s balls, Tavaris was gorgeous enough to ensure some innocent groping now and then. But that was something different, something rather unnerving. The act was necessary, but the slipping control…

…a furry paw hit him suddenly, sending him under a wall of the old ruins. He was losing it.

 Scrambling wobbly at his feet Zevran brushed all his worries away. It must’ve been an overt reaction to the danger he himself was put in in the result of Mahariel’s unfortunate illness. This kind of threat tended to make people act stupid. But now he had to be smarter if he didn’t want to exchange the assassins for werewolves.

He dove under the beast’s arm, while it was turning to attack the sick archer and sunk one of his long daggers in the artery under its armpit. The werewolf made an guttural sound and fell back to the ground.

“That’s all of them,” Tavaris said calmly, through the Antivan noticed that the ranger shook slightly. He knew that engaging in melee with the beast would most likely end very bloody, giving his current state — even with the help of the drugs. “Thank you Zevran,” he added. “But you made me worry. Aren’t you a bit distracted?”

Ill, weak, drugged and still observant. The assassin gritted his teeth, hoping that Tavaris won’t notice at least that.

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. It’s just…” He smiled slyly, sending a lurid look in the Templar’s direction. “Alistair looks so manly when he pummels his shield into the poor werewolves. I don’t even know if it makes me more aroused or sorry for the furry things.”

Both of the Wardens blushed madly, Tavaris quietly choking out Zevran’s name in agitation. Alistair, however, protested loudly.

“You can’t say these things just like that to _normal_ people!”

This time the assassin saw red — and wasn’t even particularly worried about that. He could take insults, he wouldn’t care about being called a knife-ear, a murderer, a traitorous bastard. He wouldn’t bat an eye at any words aimed at his birth circumstances, mother or upbringing. To the Pit with that, most of the things people could say were true anyway. But that was something different. He never took any shame in his proclivities, and he would never agree to being looked down upon for taking liking in men. And especially not in the front of a boy who was deeply insecure in his sexuality already.

“Are you trying to imply that there’s something abnormal about fancying people of the same gender, Templar?” He asked, deceptively calm. “That there’s something wrong with it? With me? With our dear Tavaris, maybe?”

Alistair looked at him, all flustered and confused.

“Uhm, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Tav, but…” he almost choked on words, some primal part of him probably sensing the danger in Zevran’s tense posture. “Ehm, it’s not like it’s particularly _normal_ , is it? And, well, the idea seems to be rather… weird for me, but, well, you do you, right?”

“Weird?” Zevran asked in an acrid tone. “And what’s so weird about it, pray tell? Do we grow horns and tails? Do we ooze slime? Or maybe the fact that two men can simply share the pleasures of the body is so inconceivable?”

He was really tempted to just skewer that dumb, bigot ass and be over with that discussion once and for all, but he restrained himself. He was more than ready, however, for some more vicious remarks, when he felt a narrow hand on his shoulder.

“Please, _vhenan_ , stop.” Tavaris seemed sad and was avoiding his eyes when he said: “It’s not like he’s entirely wrong.”

It was like all the fight left the Antivan as he looked at the young elf. It was heartbreaking to see him putting back the mental armour Zevran so recently started to peel away.

“ _Querido_ _…_ ” He reached to his lover, gently brushing his cheek. “He _is_ wrong. There’s nothing…”

“We don’t have time for this now, Zevran,” Mahariel interrupted him, turning away from his hands and his gaze. “We do have a wolf to find.”


	8. The lair of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 27th May 2017:
> 
> Alright, so the Word told me it's 20 pages. And they took a lot from me, so... the next one, idk. Monday-ish?

Apparently, the last turn they took while exploring the ruins wasn’t the one they were meant to choose. Aggravating a young high dragon wasn’t nowhere on their to-do list, Zevran was pretty sure of that.

Tavaris was slightly paler than before, but the assassin couldn’t tell if the reason for it was the view in front of them or the progressing curse. He was chewing on another root piece, and while the drug seemed to help, it was wearing off much faster than Arainai was used to. That fact itself was alarming.

As was the waking up dragon in the huge chamber.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair whispered, leaning on his unsheathed sword in a way that was definitely damaging for the blade. Tavaris shook his head slightly and gave a silent sign to retreat. Zevran agreed. There _had_ to be other way. They couldn’t afford to waste their time and energy…

…A volley of fire, followed by the deafening roar shut out in their direction and the Antivan barely managed to duck behind a pillar, pulling the sick Warden down with him. Behind his back, he heard a loud thud of door shutting close and then a cracking sound followed. As he glanced towards their escape route he discovered that the force of the blow made some of the rocks fall off the wall, effectively blocking the way out. It wouldn’t be much of a problem, if not for the angry beast breathing fire down their necks.

Tavaris, thankfully, didn’t try to get up immediately, waiting for Zevran to give him all clear. He only propped himself up on his elbows, asking quietly,“Is everyone alright?”

There were grunts and whispers of affirmation around and it seemed to rile the dragon ever more, as it sent another fiery torrent over their heads. Tavaris took a deep breath, pushing Zevran a little so he’d have more place to move.

“Once it calms down a bit, scatter and take cover. We need to put it down; the way out is blocked,” he quietly instructed, looking around for the bow he dropped when they fell down.

Grabbing the weapon he gave it a quick once-over to make sure it wasn’t damaged in the fall, then looked at Zevran questioningly. The assassin glanced over the ancient statue that fell just next to the pillar they were hiding behind, then nodded.

“Just… Try to keep away, yes?” He asked quietly, looking at the hunter with worry. There was no telling when _pan de cuervo_ was going to lost its potency again and they were too close to the dose Zevran wouldn’t dare exceed.

Tavaris raised his bow slightly.

“It isn’t exactly a weapon one wants to use in close quarters,” he smiled reassuringly. “Go.”

It didn’t feel right to leave Tavaris alone when he could collapse any second, but while the hunter was better off as far from the dragon as possible, Zevran needed to get close to it to be able to deal any damage. He pulled the shadows around himself, disappearing from the sight and that was the moment Tavaris chose to signal the rest.

“Scatter!” he cried, notching an arrow and standing from his crouched position to send it into the beast. Zevran sneaked out from behind his cover, mentally cataloguing any hiding spots he could reach if it decided to roast him. He tried to keep his attention on the enemy, but he couldn’t help but notice when the usually nimble ranger stumbled a bit.

Alistair run straight for the dragon, with his shield raised high, and Morrigan was casting some kind of an ice spell on the templar to protect him from the fiery breath. Sten was approaching the beast a little bit more carefully, circling around it to reach its flank. Leliana found another pile of stones to hide behind.

They worked well together — Zevran leaped to the beast rear, avoiding the tail and diving under it, reasoning that most probably he’d find the softest skin there. Alistair was taunting the beast, shouting and slashing at its front to keep it from flying away, while Sten was trying to damage its wings enough to ensure that the beast will stay grounded. Morrigan fought with ice, freezing dragon’s maw and Alistair’s shield at astounding pace.

The archers fared much worse. While they were both relatively safe behind the stones, Leliana’s arrows bounced of the hard scales and the clutter on the floor suggested that a huge part of Zevran’s lover’s arrows didn’t even reach their target. That was an unnerving sight — he could give him just one dose more, but Tav’s body seemed to burn through the drug with an unprecedented speed.

Zevran jabbed at the joint of the dragon’s paw, making the creature roar viciously and wave damaged leathery wings in a futile attempt to escape.  The wings, however, weren’t able to hold its weight too long and the beast crashed down, forcing Zevran to roll away. He heard a panicked cry from Tav’s direction when the dragon’s body fell where his head was just mere seconds ago.

“‘m fine!,” he shouted, dodging a trashing wing and trying to find some weakness in the monster’s armour he could actually reach. But suddenly the beast stilled. Zevran looked up to see Sten’s sword buried halfway in the dragon’s neck, severing the spine. With a last roar the dragon died.

The archer came out, the sweat even more prominent on his brow, and stumbled towards Zevran. He seemed worried, but the assassin couldn’t really focus on this, when he looked at the deathly pallor of his skin and the blown pupils.

“Y’allright?” he slurred quietly, looking absolutely exhausted. Zevran felt a pang of panic.

“It’s not me you should worry about. You look dreadful.”

“‘ve felt betta,” Tavaris admitted quietly, wrapping his arms around Zevran’s neck and leaning on him discreetly under a pretence of a kiss.

“I’d like to ask you for somethin’,” he whispered. The assassin wrapped his arms around the boy, supporting his weight and looked at him questioningly.

“If the curse... If I change, please, put me down. I don’wan’ to be… this.”

Zevran scoffed, pressing his forehead to the archer’s brow to check his temperature. The boy was burning.

“We’re going to get the cure. Even if you change it won’t be for long.”

Tavaris looked at him with deep hurt in his eyes. Zevran pulled him closer.

“No, _querido_ , don’t ask me to kill you when there’s any chance. I need you…”   
He wanted to add ‘to keep the Crows away’, but an odd flash of pleasure on his lover’s face stopped him from finishing the sentence.

“We nee’ to come back he’e when we’re finish’,” Tav said quietly, the speech coming to him with an obvious difficulty. “We nee’ resources and even this ‘ragonscale is priceless. Not to menshon the res’ of ‘ragon’s treasu’.”

That sounded better.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Zevran promised. “But now I’d like to ask you to keep away from the fight. It would be an irreparable tragedy to lose such a fine man to his own stubbornness.”

Tavaris didn’t blush, didn’t protest — and if Zevran didn’t know that the ranger was terminally ill already, this would make him truly terrified. There was no shyness or his usual bravado, no attempt to hide his condition. To act so out of character Tavaris must’ve been in dramatic shape.  

“I’ll try,” he just promised meekly, leaning on the assassin’s arm much too heavily.

“If you are finished, there’s a passage on the other side of this room,” Morrigan informed them curtly. “I suggest haste.”

Zevran agreed. With an arm wrapped around Tav’s waist he led the sick Warden towards the passage, which looked like a crude hole dug in the wall. The corridor, however, went much further, so they entered the unknown path.

“You think we’ll reach Witherfan’ this way?” Tavaris asked quietly, looking at Zevran from under heavy eyelids.

“I have no idea. It seems to lead deeper, anyway, and that should be a good sign, no?” Answered the assassin, fighting hard to keep his cheerful mask on. The Warden’s condition was quickly deteriorating and the Antivan started to feel the Crows’ breath on his neck.

They went deeper into the ruins, facing animated corpses standing up from the ground as they passed. Zevran had to let go the Warden, but Tavaris had fallen back — the fact for which the assassin was immensely grateful. He didn’t bother with the bow anymore, drawing only his long dagger to ward off any stray attackers. Fortunately, between Alistair and Sten there were enough of them to keep the weak elf relatively safe.

Except for the immediate danger, however, nothing could catch the Dalish man’s attention. Not even a ghost of a young elven boy crying in grief, whom they encountered as soon as they left the corridor. Soon he was leaning against oddly proud Leliana and Zevran decided that it was as good solution as any, since she fought from the distance anyway. Her expression however, finally gave Zevran a hint about her sour demeanour the night when he first enjoyed Tav's company. It seemed that the Bard was infatuated with Tavaris. 

Good luck with that, he thought. With his deep contempt toward humans Tav would sooner cut off his own dick than go to bed with a human girl, Zevran was sure — not that he would really mind if he was wrong. 

“The Veil is thin here,” noticed Morrigan, interrupting his thoughts. “’Tis a dangerous place.”

“The scary witch is afraid?” Asked Alistair, in a poor attempt to sound sarcastic, that didn’t mask a fact that he himself was spooked. The Templar didn’t feel good around the supernatural, Zevran noticed long time ago.

Finally they reached a chamber with a small pond in the middle. It was the last room they searched and there wasn’t any other way than the way they came.

“It seems we’re royally fucked up,” Zevran noticed. The lair was guarded well. After the werewolves blocked the straight route it seemed like there was no entrance left.

“Wait,” said Morrigan, weaving strands of bright light over the pond. “’Tis a portal.” The Antivan eyed the reservoir sceptically. It was maybe a feet deep and didn’t look magical at all, even to his sharp senses.

“Can you tell where it leads?Alistair asked, his expression doubtful.

“Deeper,” answered Morrigan curtly. “Can’t say nothing more.”

Tavaris shrugged slightly.

“If we don’ find Witherfan’ I’m as good as dead,” he said, leaving Leliana’s side. “You don’t have to follow.”

With a sinking heart Zevran looked as Tavaris entered the pond and disappeared in a flash of light.

“Well, that’s settles it,” he said lightheartedly, as he moved to follow. While the curse might had been reversible, death surely wasn’t, so someone had to watch the hunter’s back.

Apparently, Leliana had decided the same, as they both appeared in a dark corridor in a span of seconds. Tavaris was leaning against the wall, looking awfully weak, but he beamed when he saw Zevran.

“I’m gla’ you decide’ to join me,  _vhenan_ ,” he said, wrapping his arms around the assassin’s neck and kissing him briefly. He felt heavy in Zevran’s arms, obviously not in any shape to support himself and that worried the Antivan deeply. Should they need to fight again he was going to be worse than useless — someone would have to stand guard by him all the time.

Slowly the rest of their party appeared. First Sten, followed by Morrigan, and almost a minute later Alistair.

“Let’s keep moving,” Zevran said, wrapping his arm around Tavaris for support. “Honestly,  _querido_ , it was a dumb decision to come with us,” he said quietly. He didn’t know what laid before them and wasn’t sure if they were going to be lucky for much longer. The fact that Tavaris wasn’t dead was a little miracle, considering how sluggish he became.

“I had to,” Tavaris slurred. “But I’m sorry to be a hin’rance.”

“You aren’t,” Zevran denied quickly, despite the fact that he almost called him a hindrance himself, just mere seconds before. Tav wasn’t one to buy this kind of bullshit, though, judging by the heavy look he gave him.

“Let’s go,” he said only, pulling Zevran weakly towards the door at the end of the corridor.

 

They’ve found werewolves.

The pack of rabid ones attacked them as soon as they crossed the threshold, howling and clawing at them with fury. Tavaris fell back, slumped against a wall, as they cut their way to the exit. They didn’t have to go far, however. In a huge, empty room stood another group of beasts, looking at them with a glint of intelligence in their small eyes.

“Stop! Brothers and sisters, be at ease,” growled one of them, trying to calm down his angry brethren. Other beasts growled and tensed, ready to jump them in a blink of an eye, but held back for now.

“We don’t wish any more of our people hurt. Where’s your leader? Are you willing to parlay?”

Tavaris, who was currently hidden behind Sten, straightened himself and stepped forward, looking the beast in the eye.

“You are lookin’ for me.” He answered slowly, growing even paler than he was already. The effort of standing without help was too much for him. “And we’re talkin’. So talk”

“A Dalish!” The werewolf hissed. “And here our Lady thinks that you don’t know the whole story!”

“I am of Sabrae clan. Your quarrel is with the Tavella,” answered the elf, pronouncing his words carefully, but the beads of sweat were visible on his forehead. “I don’t know your story.”

The werewolf growled, but he answered relatively calmly.

“I come on behalf of our Lady. She means you no harm, providing that your offer to parlay in peace is an honest one.”

“It’s not me, who’s offerin’,” murmured Tav quietly, but louder he added: “If  we are safe, then your Lady has nothin’ to fear from us. Lead us to her.”

Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood for the lengthy discussions, and Zevran wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t be too if he were in Tav’s boots. The werewolf looked at them suspiciously then nodded and turned around.

“Follow me, then.”

The room they entered was spacious and bright. The huge chunks of ceiling were missing, letting the sunlight in. In these patches of light, the forest plants grew —  grasses, bushes and even trees, somehow blending seamlessly with the white stones of the ancient ruins. The overall effect was maybe a bit eerie, as the stones peaking from under the grass weirdly reminded Zevran of bones, but it was pretty nevertheless. The Antivan would appreciate the view much more, though, if there weren’t lots of angry, snarling werewolves around them. He just quietly hoped that they couldn’t smell his fear, as wild animals were said to do.

Tavaris was breathing heavily, walking a few steps in front of the assassin, carried only by his sheer will. The assassin was pretty sure that soon it won’t be enough, so he just readied himself to catch their stubborn leader if  — when — he falls.

Werewolves growled furiously, surrounding them in a shrinking circle, but for now they didn’t attack. It seemed, however, that it took their whole self-control not to do so and the assassin couldn’t help but feel really nervous about the whole situation. “Parlaying” in his mind looked a little bit different.

The growling toned down and from the deeper part of the chamber an odd creature emerged. She - because definitely it was a “she” - had greenish skin and long, black hair. Her most distinguishing feature, however, were long, brown twigs that grew from her appendages replacing her hands and feet. She run these through the mane of the biggest of the werewolves and the beast calmed down instantly, leaning into the touch.

“I bid you welcome, mortal,” she said in a soft voice that resonated with rich undertones. “I see you fell victim to the curse we suffer. I apologize. I imagine your pain must be even greater than pain victims usually suffer. There’s so much darkness in you.” Zevran raised his brow. Darkness? The assassin knew darkness, intimately, but he never saw any signs of it in this tender, shy man. Even thinking about the concept with any connection to him seemed absurd; then, he had to admit, he didn’t know too much of the hunter’s background.

The creature wove a net of the green light and send it towards Tavaris, who sighed loudly as soon as it touched him. It took a moment for the lights to settle on his skin and then absorb into it. At the end of the process, elf’s arms visibly relaxed.   
“I cannot undo the curse, mortal, but I can lessen your pain so you can finish what you came here for.”

“Thank you,” answered Tav quietly. “But I didn’t come here to talk about my inner darkness.”

“I came for the Witherfang’s heart… “ A vicious snarl interrupted Tav’s speech, but the young elf didn’t stop. “But I believe you wanted to tell me something about that.”

“I did,” she admitted. “I am the spirit of this forest, elf, and I kept you and the hunters at bay before. But you proved too resourceful for me and I have to find another way to keep them safe.” Her long twig-fingers combed through the fur on the werewolf’s head. The beast growled.

“ _We_ can keep you safe, my Lady. You and cubs and all that are too weak to fight. Let me tear them to pieces.”

“We don’t want any more bloodshed, Swiftrunner,” she said gently. “Just think of it — if you fight just more of your brothers and sisters will fall. Do you really want it?”

“No, my Lady,” the beast growled, calming down a bit, but still glaring at them with a murderous intent. The spirit turned its attention to their group.

“I apologize on Swiftrunner’s behalf. He struggles with his very nature.”

Tavaris smiled wearily.

“Aren’t we all, Lady…?”

“Truer words were never spoken,” something like smile flashed on the otherwise impassive face of the creature. “But few could claim the same as these creatures: that their very nature is a curse, forced upon them.” She paused to stroke Swiftrunner once again.

“No doubt you have questions, mortal. There are things Zathrian hasn’t told you.”

It was slowly becoming annoying. There was no time to play verbal games. The matter had to be resolved quickly, and the spirit seemingly was intent on making the conversation longer than it was needed. Tavaris apparently thought the same.

“Yes, yes, what are these things?” He asked, eager to cut to the chase.

“It was Zathrian, who created the curse those creatures suffer; the same curse that you and Zathrian’s own people suffer.”

Zevran felt his eyes widen — that was, at least, an interesting development.

“Why would he…” Tavaris seemed to be shocked too.

The spirit answered by telling the ancient tale of Zathrian’s children — raped and murdered by a human tribe which lived near Brecilian centuries ago. Well, it seemed that there were things in this world that didn’t change much with the passing time, as Zevran noted quietly.

“Zathrian sought revenge and so he called a powerful spirit and bound it to a wolf, which became Witherfang. Witherfang attacked the village, killing, maiming and turning villagers into mindless creatures you’ve encountered in the forest. But they are rabid no more.”

“If werewolves aren’t feral, then why was I attacked?” Asked Tavaris.   
“You are Dalish,” answered the spirit. “And forgive us, we cannot tell differences between members of different clans; we had no idea you’re an outsider.” She furrowed her brow. “But Zathrian forced our hand. We have send envoys every time Tavella camped here, but the Keeper chose to ignore them. Now we send a message he cannot ignore. We need him to end this curse, as he is the only one who can do it.”

“So he didn’t ignore it this time. He asked me for help in hunting Witherfang. Tell me, where I can find him and he’ll break the curse.”

“He will not,” she answered. “He seeks only to cure his own people, but his hatred is still deep. And this cure will not work on those, who already changed. He needs to come here and see with his own eyes suffering he brought. Go to him, tell him I have the power to hide Witherfang from him for eternity. And I will do it if he won’t find a shred of sympathy in his heart.”

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” answered Tavaris, his expression turning sour. Zevran was pretty sure that just like him, he was counting time he had left before the curse took him — and the result didn’t seem favourable. There wasn’t much chance they’d manage to get back to the Dalish before the hunter turned into a rabid beast and the assassin wasn’t very optimistic about their chances to get the Keeper away from the camp without his help.

“People who wronged Zathrian are long dead, mortal. Have pity over those who bear the curse even if they never did anything wrong.”

Zevran scoffed quietly. He was half of a mind to suggest that they just should start killing werewolves until the spirit relented and gave them Witherfang, but that wasn’t going to end well too, he suspected.

“I believe I have enough reasons of my own to see this curse ended. I’ll come back with him,” Tavaris answered curtly. “If I have enough time left, that’s it.”

“Thank you. I’ve opened a passage for you there. I’m waiting for your return.”

 

As they emerged from the long staircase, they were surprised to find Zathrian there already, examining two werewolf bodies. Good, that saved them time, even if the reasons were suspicious.

“Zathrian!” Tavaris all but roared. “You’ve lied to us.” His hand was already on the hilt of his dagger.

Zevran was actually shocked. It wasn’t a common occurrence, as an Antivan Crow who lived past his thirty-second _D_ _ía de Iniciación_ usually wasn’t moved by much. You learnt much in this life, whether you liked or not. By your _Apogeo_ you would knew more about yourself than you ever wished. Few years forward and you would see men and women of every race and nation at their absolute worst. Add a handful more and you would learn to understand intimately their inner workings, how to push and where to pull to achieve your results. And soon after that you’d know almost everything there was to learn about the nature of men.

Yet, there still were surprises. Rare, and thus precious, no matter if you looked at  them as a thing to dissect or to enjoy. And while Zevran was always more prone to seeking the joys, this one had an unpleasant undercurrent of worry.

It wasn’t like Tavaris to act this way. Or, if it was, then the young elf hid it well so far, while the assassin already believed he had him taken apart and then put together with all the convenient labels and categories he needed. That thought was equally exciting and unnerving. Another, much scarier alternative was that the curse was finally taking hold on him. What was undebatable, however, was that the Crow never saw any signs that would suggest that the Dalish elf was capable of this kind of uninhibited rage.  And, while it surely would prove entertaining to watch him mutilate Zathrian, like apparently was his intent, it didn’t seem wise to do so right now. Not unless they had an alternative way of undoing the curse.

“We promised, _querido_ ,” he reminded his lover quietly, placing a calming hand on his shoulder in hope that it would stop the young man from murdering the Keeper with his bare hands. Tavaris hesitated and took a step back — not exactly leaning on the assassin, but obviously seeking as many points of contact as possible. Zevran complied, moving his hand to Tav’s hip in a calming gesture.

“How could you? How could you do this to your own people?” The streak of elvish curses that followed was intangible — the Crow suspected that even the Keeper might have had a problem with distinguishing the words.

Zathrian raised his hands.

“I see that you’ve spoken to the spirit,” he answered, keeping his face carefully neutral. “And that she made you listen to her lies, claiming the werewolves aren’t the savages they seem to be.”

“I actually saw them,” seethed Tavaris. “And I don’t believe she lied; she even confessed the crimes the humans committed. And she wants to parlay, even if I’d like to put an arrow in your eye.”

“So you know what they did and still won’t see reason?” Zathrian grimaced. “You are a disgrace! Supporting rapists and murderers? Letting that _elvhen_ _’alas_ paw at you as if you were a woman? No wonder your clan abandoned you.” He spat under Tavaris’ feet. “ _Harellan!_ ”

Zevran more felt than saw the hunter tense even more, all coiled fury and hate. The insults seemed to touch his weak points and they couldn’t afford raising to that bait now.  There wasn’t much he could do, though, so he just squeezed the archer’s hip gently, trying to keep him grounded. The boy flinched slightly and the assassin felt a brief worry that he had misread his needs, but then he inched even closer, looking Zathrian deviantly in the eye.

“I support your people, Zathrian, as it should be your duty,” he drawled out, leaning heavily on Zevran, as if he didn’t trust his own body.  The assassin wasn’t sure if he was more afraid he’d fall without support or that he was going to attack the Keeper without someone to hold him back. “Your people, whom you doomed to suffering because of your hatred. Are they supposed to die too, because of crimes committed by  _shemlen_  dead for centuries?”

“That’s why I send you to get Witherfang’s heart,” Zathrian spat. “You promised me you’ll bring it to me. Are you not only a traitor to your people but also an oathbreaker?”

That had gone too far, Zevran knew. Tavaris, blinded with anger, was already jumping towards the Keeper, blades drawn, when the assassin threw his arms around him, stopping him mid-step.

“ _Mi querido_ ,” he started soothingly. “If we want help, we need the bastard alive, I’m afraid. Remember, what she said.” That seemed to stop the young hunter, but the fury emanating from him was almost tangible.

“I swore to right the wrongs,” Tavaris drawled through his gritted teeth. “Wrongs that apparently were your doing.”

“It’s not my…” Zevran felt young elf’s muscles shift. The growl that came out of his throat was already inhuman.

“I don’t think you should anger him right now,” he suggested, looking at Zathrian, and hugged his lover close. “We really don’t want him to wolf out.”

Holding Tavaris when he looked like he could change any given moment was an unnerving experience, even by the Crow’s standards. Holding a person that could in any second turn into a mindless, bloodthirsty beast was a bit like holding a box of qunari _gaatlok._ Tav was a very tactile person, though, and Zevran had a feeling that the sensation of another body pressed against his was the only thing that kept the archer sane and elf-shaped right now.

Alistair finally found his balls somewhere in that steel can he insisted on wearing and stepped forward, frowning and quite foreboding.

“You’re coming with us, Zathrian, or you’ll be not only responsible for your own people but also for the all people murdered by the Darkspawn that he couldn’t stop.”

The Keeper sighed deeply, rubbing his bald head in a faked defeat.

“Fine. I’ll come to ‘parley’,” he said. “But only if you can guarantee my safety there. And I must warn you — I don’t really see any point in that.”

Tavaris relaxed, satisfied for now; the assassin, on the contrary — tensed, deeply distrusting Zathrian’s sudden change of mind. If the Keeper wasn’t planning anything, Zevran was an Orlesian maid.

“As long as you won’t start the fight, I guarantee that no harm will come to you,” promised the Warden, reluctantly drawing away from the Antivan. He seemed calmer now, but Zevran saw his rigid muscles, the slight grimace on his face and was sure that the young man still raged inside. But his voice was more natural now. The assassin suspected that the loss of control made the curse manifest itself stronger.

They descended slowly into the werewolf den, to find the Lady with her entourage waiting for them. Tavaris was leaning on the Antivan again, his movements getting more and more clumsy. The brief reprieve brought by the Lady’s blessing seemed to end as he was getting closer and closer to transforming.

“So here you are, spirit,” started Zathrian. Swiftrunner jumped in his direction, leaning over him menacingly.

“She’s the Lady of the Forest,” he growled. “You will address her properly.”

“You’ve taken a name, spirit? And you’ve given the names to your pets? These… beasts who follow you?”

“It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian. And the names they take are their own. They follow me, because I help them to find out who they are.

“Who they are has not changed from whom their ancestors were! Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only mirrors their monstrous hearts!”

At that many people started to talk at once.

“He will not help us, Lady,” one of the werewolves growled.

“He’s not here to talk,”  that was another.

 “Do I have monstrous heart, Zathrian? Do your people?” Was Tavaris’ hissed remark.

“That is true. I’m not here to talk. I came for the Witherfang’s heart.” He turned to Tavaris. “Which will cure you and our hunters, even if I’m not sure you deserve it.”

“He has come to kill you, Lady!” Swiftrunner snarled and Zevran looked at him with a furrowed brow. There still were pieces left. Was it possible that the spirit was Witherfang?

“Huh. Just as I suspected,” Morrigan said quietly behind him, confirming his own suspicions.

“And what of you, mortal? Do you support Zathrian in this? Even after all you have heard?”

“I’d prefer a peaceful solution if one could be found,” Tavaris  answered but his voice was more of a growl than his usual, soft tone.

“He’s changing!” Announced Zathrian. “His mind is no longer his own!”

Zevran felt the slender muscles under his arm bulge and expand before he even managed to cast a glance at the hunter — Zathrian was right, Tavaris was changing and the thought invoked a sharp pang of panic in him. The young elf fell to his knees, slipping out of the assassin’s hold, as his body grew and twisted. His pained cries soon morphed into equally anguished howls, just as his pretty face turned into an animal snout and smooth limbs became covered in grey fur.

Zevran felt a heaviness settling in his bones. They have taken too long. Tavaris had become a beast.

The wolf-that-used-to-be-a-Warden curled into itself in pain, whimpering quietly. Zevran felt a bit at loss. It was disturbing to see that resolute young man reduced to that snivelling pile of fur.

_Braska,_ he liked the boy. He didn’t wish to see him like that.

“Bear with it for a moment,  _querido_. We’ll change you back in no time,” he promised, dropping to his knees at the Warden’s side and wrapping his arm around his back, just as one of the wolves who were silent so far darted to them and crouched next to them. As soon as Zevran touched him, Tavaris howled again and the werewolf snarled.

“Take your arm away, elf. He’s hurting.”

Zevran reluctantly obeyed. He did not know the workings of the curse and it stood to reason that the muscles overworked by the change might be sensitive to touch for the time being. The wolf kneeling next to them launched into a soft, cooing sound, hovering over Tavaris gingerly, but never making any skin contact.

Zevran looked up at Zathrian, feeling cold fury coiling in his gut.

“You are going to undo this curse right now, even if I’ll have to force you to do this,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry for what happened to your friend, but I’m not going to do that. I won’t lift the curse, it’s justice.” The superfluous apology fell flat to the assassin’s ears, especially given the insults the Keeper threw at his lover a short while ago.

“You’re not, but you soon will be,” Zevran promised, raising to his feet. His threat was emphasized by the menacing sound of Sten’s sword being slowly drawn from its sheath.

“Are you sure that it’s only justice you seek, Zathrian?” The spirit asked quietly, sounding like she if she tried to delay the inevitable violence. “Have you even told them how you created the curse?”

“He told us that he bound your spirit to the body of a wolf,” Alistair answered, his own weapon halfway out from its sheath.

“Yes, that he did. But it’s a powerful magic, and such power needed his own blood. His people think that he discovered forgotten secret of immortality, but it is the curse that keeps him alive.” Her voice still sounded gentle and ethereal, bringing visions of a forest stream or wind’s soft whispers in the leaves, but the Crow couldn’t shake off an impression that it turned slightly accusing at the end.

“Does that mean that if we kill him, the curse will break?” Zevran asked, drawing his daggers with a feral grin. That he could do. He excelled at killing things, after all, and this time he had a very selfish motivation to succeed. And a pretty solid support.

“Not necessarily,” answered Morrigan, but before she had a chance to finish Zathrian’s staff glowed. Suddenly they found themselves unable to move, with bright hexes under their feet. Tavaris was sobbing, heartbreaking, inhuman sounds.

Morrigan shouted something, the symbols around them disappeared, and Zathrian staggered, hit with an ice projectile. Both of the warriors were already running in the mage’s direction, as Zevran cloaked himself in shadows, stealthily moving behind the Keeper. Leiliana was sending an arrow after an arrow in his direction, and while most of them bounced uselessly of the mage’s barrier, it was at least an additional distraction. The werewolves surrounding their group jumped into the fray too, bringing with them their snarls, growls and the terrifying claws.

The sobbing slowly calmed down, and though Zevran couldn’t really lose his focus right now, he spared a glance at the hunched Warden — the Lady was crouching at his side, running her twig fingers slowly through his fur. Reassured that the silence was, indeed, a good sign, he returned all his attention to the elven mage. The mage, who seemingly didn’t tire out, despite the fact that spells flew out of his hands like whores from a burning brothel.

He was focused on the wolves in the front of him at the moment, however, sending painfully looking  blasts of electricity through the creatures. That was Zevran’s opening.

He spared a quick thought to the poisons he used to coat his blades earlier. Both were potent and fatal, which, in retrospection, wasn’t the best choice he could make. Still, he hesitated only for a moment, before he jabbed the shorter of his blades into the elf’s thigh. The venom of the Drylands’ scorpion was as deadly as the concentrated widow’s broth, but it took much longer to work, paralysing the victim first.

Zathrian faltered, took a two wobbly steps forward and collapsed with an anguished groan, falling straight on his face. Alistair jumped at the opportunity, not processing yet what happened and pointed his sword at Zathrian’s neck.

“Are you ready to undo the curse now?”  He asked, pressing the blade to the skin softly.

Zathrian could only gurgle incoherently. The Crow showed the Warden away, kneeling by the fallen Keeper.

“Just give me a few moments,” he requested, pulling out several vials and needles from his belt. A small dose of magebane had to be administered first, then the antidote… and maybe a weaker paralysing agent? After a brief consideration, he showed the last vial back into its pocket and set to work. The Keeper had to be able to talk, perhaps to move too, and with his connection to the Fade weakened he wouldn’t be a big danger when there were so many people to keep him in check.

Few moments later Zathrian moved, raising on his arms and coughing loudly. Alistair repeated his question, but the Keeper only chuckled — a broken sound that turned quickly into another hacking fit.

“You are asking me at the tip of a sword if I will break the curse killing myself in the process,” he finally answered. “Do what you wish.”

Alistair smiled innocently.

“I could kill you, that’s true, but I’d never kill an unarmed man. However, I can give you to Tav’s lover, who actually happen to be a master of poisons and torture. And definitely doesn’t have any qualms about using these skills, as you could have already noticed.”

Zevran smiled at Zathrian. It was practised, threatening smile that didn’t reach his eyes. If it felt weird to be called Tav’s lover by others, now it wasn’t time to dwell on it. Actually, that was surprisingly good thinking on Alistair’s part. If the Keeper believed that the emotional connection here was deeper than it actually was, he was going to be only easier to intimidate. The determination of people who protected their loved ones was a frightening thing, after all. 

“I can brew a potion that will make you writhe in pain for days, as all the cursed did. Or one that will make your skin fall off, piece by piece. Or I can just skin you alive while you watch. Cut your fingers off, one slice at a time.  And that’s just the beginning,” he said quietly, playing along. “Or you can just give up and make my man lose the fur.”

“If I had the heart…” Started Zathrian, but he was interrupted by Leilana.

“Stop it. We already know it won’t help someone who has already changed. And these people,” she made a wide move with her arm, encompassing the gathered werewolves, “don’t deserve their fate either. Fix it!”

Swiftrunner growled.

“Just kill him.”

“No, Swiftrunner, we will not kill him,” protested the spirit, slowly approaching. “If there’s no room in our hearts for mercy how may we expect there to be room in his?”

Zathrian raised his head with an effort. The magebane side effects were apparently slow enough to make him sluggish, Zevran noticed, observing him with a cold, professional detachment.

“I cannot do what you ask, spirit,” he said, looking as if he forgot about the rest of the people gathered in the room. “I am too old to know mercy… All I see are the faces of my children, of my people… I… I cannot do it.”

“Are you sure, or are you afraid of dying?” One of the werewolves snarled, approaching slowly. “Because that will come for you anyway.”

It was only when the pawed hand landed on Zevran’s shoulder that the assassin realized it was Tavaris. He squeezed the paw gently. The fur was surprisingly soft.

“I’m glad you’re still… you,” he whispered. Tavaris made an odd sound.

“Lady helps,” he admitted in a garbled voice. “But I am angry… so angry it hurts.”

Zathrian looked at him with an odd expression. At first the assassin was sure that the Keeper was going to continue with his stubborn act, but as he looked at Tavaris looming over Zevran’s shoulder, then at Lady who was running her fingers gently through Swiftrunner’s fur, something in his face softened.

“Perhaps I have…  lived too long. This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root. It has consumed my soul.” He moved slowly, until he managed to kneel. “What of you, spirit? You are as bound to this curse as I am. Do you not fear your end?”

“You are my maker, Zathrian,” she said, abandoning the wolf and kneeling in the front of the Keeper instead. Her movements were gentle and fluid like a summer breeze. “You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life. Yet of all things I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, maker, put an end to me. We beg you... show mercy“

It seemed that this attitude worked on Zathrian much better than threats. Of course, the Crow was confident that given enough time, he’d get from the mage whatever they needed — but this way seemed much faster. Zathrian reached out to the spirit, running his fingers over the twigs of her hands. Alistair, prompted by the nod from Tavaris, took a step back, sliding his sword back into its sheath.

“You shame me, spirit. I am an old man alive long past his time.”

“Then will you do it? Will you end the curse?” For the first time they came there the Lady seemed to be eager… knowing that she was eager to end her own life made the whole scene a little bit creepy in Zevran’s eyes. Still, if that’s what it took…

He looked at the werewolf at his side whose snout frozen in permanent snarl. His fur seemed to be on the lighter side, perhaps an echo of his honey-blond locks. He looked intently at the scene in the front of them and Zevran squeezed the paw on his shoulder once again. Tavaris didn’t lose his mind, despite the bestial form, so Zevran wouldn’t abandon him; his oath was still valid. But he really itched to run his fingers through that blond hair again, so he hoped the spirit succeeded.

When he looked back to the old elf he saw him engaged in a mute conversation with the spirit. Finally, he stood up slowly.

“Yes, I think it is time. Let us… Let us put an end to all that.” He leaned heavily on his staff and gestured at the spirit. “Come here. I hope I’ll manage to pull this ritual with that magebane in my blood”

“I can boost the power if that’s what you need,” Morrigan offered, stepping forward, just as Lady took a step in his direction and nodded solemnly.

Zathrian looked at the both women somberly, nodded his agreement to the witch then started his incantation. Morrigan raised her staff, sending a green stream of light in his direction.

One moment, the Keeper was standing tall, chanting a complicated, elven spell, next second he was already lying lifeless on the floor — the change was so fast that the assassin didn’t even manage to see what happened. The spirit sighed loudly and raised her twigs in something resembling blessing. The werewolves surrounded her, crowding near as if they wanted to keep her despite of what was happening. Even Tavaris turned to her, his sharp moves betraying anxiety.

In a soft glow Lady dispersed, part by part, until all that remained was clean air. And in this very second all of the werewolves flashed with blinding, white light, forcing Zevran (and everyone else) to look away. When the light dimmed enough to look again the assassin found his Warden curled on the floor beside him, moaning in pain.

“Twice a day… That’s too much,” he murmured quietly, as Zev helped him to his feet and pulled him into a tight hug. His hair felt like silk under his hand.

“She’s gone… And we’re human. I can’t believe,” said one of the other men freed from the curse. The Antivan couldn’t be sure, but he suspected it was Swiftrunner. An elven woman in her thirties massaged her arms and looked gently at the archer, who was hiding his face in Zevran’s neck. The assassin caught her eyes, suddenly realizing that it was probably the one who took care of Tav while he was transforming.  He mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’ in her direction, making her smile and nod. Yes, it had to be her.

“So it’s done,” announced Alistair as if anyone present could miss that. “Go and have good lives.” He hesitated for a second. “But… you might want to ask the Dalish for some clothes first. Just a friendly advice.”


	9. Stolen Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRAND NEW CHAPTER:  
> After leaving the ruins the party returns to the Dalish camp. Zevran gets an unexpected invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30th May 2017:  
> All riiiiiight. I know it's not "Monday-ish" anymore, but this time "editing" turned into "scraping all the old stuff and writing something entirely else". And there's going to be another chapter of the new stuff before I get back to the old material. I had lots of fun with the lore (which I bend and edit mercilessly for my own purposes), the elven is my usual flailing with canon sources, Project Elvhen and my own imagination. I'm not going to translate all the stuff I managed to put in there, most can be pieced together from the Project Elvhen anyway, if you really, really want. The most interesting (and confusing) stuff would be probably the title Dalish use to talk about Tavaris - Dorf’amelan’lin. It's supposed to acknowledge his status both as a Grey Warden and as a Dalish. "Dorf'amelan" is supposed to mean "Grey Guardian" - a Dalish name for the Wardens, the appendix 'lin" is the same one that appears in lethallin, to indicate kinship. If they were polite to Alistair, they'd call him just Dorf'amelan. Or so I tell myself ;P 
> 
> Anyway, have fun, another chapter in few days :) I'd be very happy to hear from you.

It took them much longer than they planned to get back to the main camp. Going at the brisk pace they would probably manage to reach the Dalish before the nightfall; unfortunately, that was out of the question. Tavaris, while much better than before, was terribly exhausted from his transformations and the sickness that preceded them. The werewolves — or, rather, the _former_ werewolves, offered them their hospitality in the ruins, but Tav politely declined, eager to get out of the place that nearly became his new home. Nobody objected, most put off by the stench of the lair.

Now Zevran wondered if that was the right decision. The hunter who at first stubbornly refused any help, now was leaning heavily on the Antivan shoulder, each step a struggle. At least the forest was much calmer; there were no werewolves to attack them, the wild animals seemed to avoid them and the trees stayed immobile, even if the assassin noticed a suspiciously face-like trunk now and then.

“I think we should make a camp,” he finally said when Tav’s head fell heavily on his shoulder. The archer looked up with visible effort, starting to protest.

“Let’s keep moving.”

“ _Hermoso_ , you’re barely standing now,” Zevran chided him gently. “And that pretty butt of yours is actually much heavier than it looks.”

Tavaris pouted and Zevran swore inwardly that it was one of the most ridiculous things he ever saw.

“I want a bath, Zevran. And a tent.” He paused for a second. “Well, what I _really_ want is a nice, cozy _aravella,_ but a tent would do.”

“Tomorrow, _querido,_ _”_ Zevran promised. “You’ll get your bath and tent and we can even talk to the Dalish, ask about the land…”

The young man shook his head.

“The only spare _aravellas_ they might have are those that belonged to some of the dead. They didn’t have enough time to perform the rites yet, so we can’t use those.”

“Alright, but anything else you wish. We won’t move out until you’re recovered,” Zevran looked the young man in the eye. “But for now, just let us camp. You need your rest.”

The Dalish finally relented, nodding reluctantly.

“Has the Warden stopped being obstinate?” Morrigan asked from her position several meters farther. “Because I can hear the stream from here and I believe we could find a decent camping spot there.”

Zevran nodded.

“Sure, go ahead. I’m going to stay here with him, so let us know when you find something, yes?”

Morrigan nodded and disappeared in the forest; for some reason Zevran couldn’t really fathom, Alistair followed her, stomping through the bushes like an angry druffalo.

“We’re low on the rations, so I’m going to try to catch us some dinner,” Leliana offered. “I’m not sure how I’ll fare but maybe I’ll manage to get us something.”

“Be quiet and be patient,” Tavaris advised. “And look for the weakest animals, not the ones that would only get angry if wounded. Stay away from bears, boars and wild druffalos. I think roes are your best bet. Hares are difficult to shoot.” He smiled softly. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you.”

Leliana smiled gently.

“Give it a day or two and you’ll be again the one who’s feeding us. Who’s better to do it than an elf, anyway?”

The hunter’s expression soured instantly, but Leliana didn’t notice, already turning to leave. Sten stayed, but sat down on a rock nearby, already completely immersed in polishing his sword. Zevran helped Tavaris onto a fallen tree log and sat beside him.

 “What’s with that face, my dear Warden?” He asked, tracing the planes of the said face with his fingers. The gesture was much more tender than Zevran would usually prefer, but it was a great relief to see the handsome face back where the animal muzzle once was.

“That’s it. I’m not hunting anymore,” the Dalish announced grimly. “I’m not a bloody servant.”

“No one is saying you are, _querido_.” The assassin put his arm around the hunter’s shoulders and pulled him closer, so Tavaris was leaning against him comfortably.

“No? What about her?”  The ranger gestured to the forest, in the direction where Leliana went. “Who’s better than an elf? Soon she’s going to demand that we wash her bowls or carry her packs.”

Zevran ran a soothing hand along his shoulder.

“I believe that was just a poor choice of words, nothing more, _querido_. She just wanted to express her appreciation for your skills and acknowledge that you’re such a masterful hunter because you were raised Dalish.”

“If you say so,” Tavaris acquiesced. “I still didn’t like it.”

“You don’t have to. But keep in mind that she probably didn’t have in mind anything half as harmful as you imagine. What are you doing?” The last question was brought by Tavaris pushing himself closer into Zevran’s hold, and nuzzling his face into his neck.

“I want you close,” the hunter whispered. “I was so scared I’m never going to hold you again, to feel your touch. That you were going to leave me.”

“I wouldn’t leave you, _hermoso mio_ ,” Zevran promised, even though some part of him wanted to run away right now. That was what he was looking for, he reminded himself. To become irreplaceable. For Tavaris to trust him and need him. Now it felt like an unbearable burden, even as he pushed the long braid to a side and kissed the back of Tav’s neck. “My oath is to you, no one else. I swore to serve you, not Alistair, not the Wardens, just you. So as long as you’re alive and in your right mind and haven’t freed me of it, I’ll stay.”

“But I told you you can go. You’re free, _vhenan._ ” There was a resigned note in the young man’s voice, as if he expected Zevran to stand up and leave this very second.

“Ah, but your quest is not yet done? So I guess, you still need a dashing assassin on your side, yes? Or am I wrong?”

“If you’re going to base your decisions on that question, I might never let you go.” Tavaris smiled weakly, resting his head on Zevran’s shoulder. “I grew rather attached to you, you know?”

Zevran forced a pleasant smile and placed a gentle kiss on Tavaris’ temple.

“Then don’t. I find your company pleasant and, besides, the Crows still are breathing down my neck. I feel better shielded by your mighty arrows than I would on my own.”

“So… You _want_ to stay with me?” Tavaris asked, a shiver of hope in his voice.

“Yes, my dear Warden. I do.”

“Good,” Tavaris more exhaled than said that, cuddling even closer and closing his eyes as he nuzzled Zevran’s neck. 

The assassin was still trying to decide how to deal with that uncomfortable amount of affection, when he felt the Dalish relax against him.  The young man finally succumbed to the exhaustion, falling asleep. Zevran sighed. That was becoming a familiar pattern.

Sten watched him from his position nearby, suddenly more interested in the elves than in his sword. Unfortunately, with this impassive face of his, Zevran had no idea what he might be thinking. It could be useful to start needling the qunari later, get some feel of his thoughts and reactions. Having this unreadable giant with them was just asking for problems.

There was a unpleasant vulnerability in sitting under the ox-man stare, while weighted down by lax, _trusting_ body of the young elf and Zevran felt rather happy to hear Alistair stomping back through the undergrowth. The Templar might not trust him and have all the brilliance and social graces of a drunken rhino, but at least the Crow felt pretty confident that the Chantry Boy won’t try to run him with his sword without any provocation. Especially not when he had their precious leader almost in his lap.

“Morrigan found a spot and it even isn’t too creepy,” Alistair announced and Tavaris stirred slightly against Zevran. “Where’s Leliana?”

“She went to catch us something to dinner,” the hunter yawned. “When did I fall asleep?”

“Not too long ago,” the assassin assured. “Are you fine with moving?”

“I’m tired, not a cripple,” Tavaris protested. “I can manage a short walk.”

 

As it turned out, Leliana hadn’t had much luck, and returned at the dusk, empty-handed. Morrigan rolled her eyes in exasperation and slithered into the forest, only to give them all a scare about an hour later, returning as a giant bear with a deer corpse hanging out of her enormous jaws. Tavaris seemed the only person unperturbed by her reappearance and he spend the rest of the evening making fun of the _shemlen_ who can’t even recognize a familiar shifter. 

In the morning he was stronger and insisted on pushing forward as fast as possible.

“The were… The cursed promised to send someone with the Keeper’s body today at the first light and I need time to inform the clan of what happened and calm everyone down so they won’t kill Zathrian’s escort at sight. We _must_ hurry!”

“I don’t really understand why you insisted they send the body back so soon,” Alistair said. “It’s cold in the ruins, so it should hold a little bit longer.”

Tavaris was almost frantic when he looked at the Templar.

“The _rites_ , Alistair, the _Suledin_ rites must be observed now! The clan is vulnerable without a Keeper!”

“They have Lanaya in case anything happened, _querido_ ,” Zevran tried to calm him down. “Even if she doesn’t know yet that she has to take a mantle, she is supposed to act as a Keeper in case anything happens, no? And I doubt Zathrian cares much now. He’s _dead._ ”

“But she isn’t a Keeper yet, Zevran!” Tavaris tossed his hands in the air in an exasperated gesture. “It can’t happen until Zathrian is properly send off and without a Keeper the clan is in danger!” He looked at them, as if he  was explaining something obvious then gave a tormented sigh. “You won’t understand. Just _hurry!_ ”

They arrived at the camp just before the noon, Tavaris almost forcing them to run, even though he wasn’t completely recovered yet. The sentries who stopped them were hostile and surprisingly anxious as they surrounded them, with swords drawn and bows at ready.

“Where’s the Keeper, Tavaris Mahariel Sabrae?” Their leader demanded. Zevran barely recognized the woman who greeted them the first time. Previously, while slightly aloof, she was rather friendly, at least towards the elf. Now there was nothing of that friendliness left. She looked like she was barely restraining herself from clawing his eyes out.

_“Ar abelas, lethallan,_ ” Tavaris answered, almost bend in half and breathing heavily, then followed with a long plea in elvish. The woman spat something back and Tavaris offered another long explanation. The elves around them seemed more and more furious.

Zevran didn’t feel safe at all.

“Fine, you can talk to the First,” the woman, Mithra — the assassin remembered — said finally, this time speaking the Trade. “You will come with me, but these _shemlen_ stay here, under guard. The _banal_ _’vhen_ and _hun_ _’vhen_ too. Do not cause trouble.”

Tavaris turned to them with an urgent look in his eyes.

“Please, stay calm. They won’t do anything to you unless Lanaya says otherwise, and I will explain everything to her,” he said quickly. “We’re not in trouble, they’re just scared and confused. I beg you, just stay calm.”

“I’m not letting anyone shoot me full of arrows, Tavaris, even if they just lost their Keeper,” Morrigan spat angrily. “I am _Asha'bellanar_ _’s_ blood, and I’m not going to stand for it.”

“Morrigan, I beg you, don’t —” that was all the hunter managed to say, before Mithra cut him off.

“Enough. If you want to speak to the First, better come before I lost my patience.”

 

That was an unpleasant wait. The Dalish backed off a little, giving them some breathing space and some of the bows were lowered, but there were arrows trained at them all the time — the arches took turns as their arms tired — and someone was always eyeing them suspiciously with their hand on the sword hilt.

The Dalish were tense and hostile, but as Zevran watched them, he saw clearly that Tavaris was right. They were frightened for some reason and all that aggression clearly stemmed from that fear. It wasn’t _very_ comforting thought — scared people were often unpredictable, but it gave the assassin the confidence that there were openings to exploit in case of a fight. Fear made people prone to mistakes.

Alistair and Leliana seemed as nervous as the elves. The Templar was standing tall, watching their guardians warily and poised to attack — which was foolish, since there wasn’t a chance of holding that stance for long without muscles tiring and weakening. Leliana acted slightly more sensibly, forcing a smile and keeping her hands away from her weapons, but Zevran saw the way she fiddled with a holy symbol on her neck — which usually was hidden under her clothes. Morrigan was more pissed than scared, leaning on her staff and giving everyone around a stink eye, but she didn’t try to start anything. Sten was stoic, as usual. As soon as Mithra left with Tavaris he just sat down in a meditative pose Zevran saw him do often in the evenings and closed his eyes. That seemed to be the best solution of all, for now, so he knelt down and started to recite soundlessly the focusing mantras he learnt during his apprenticeship with the Crows. For anyone looking, he would seem relaxed and unguarded, but the position let him move quickly if attacked, without putting an unnecessary strain on his muscles, and the familiar exercise sharpened both his senses and reflexes, giving him much needed clarity of the mind.

Time passed. Zevran felt the sun on his face move, heard the loud thud of Alistair finally giving up and sitting on the ground. Leliana started to pace nervously, the rustle of her clothes loud as a shout to the assassin’s hyperfocused senses. The elves paced too, tense bows creaked quietly. Above them leaves rippled faintly. There were some quiet murmurs of whispers now and then, low sounds of swords clinking against their scabbards, steps in the distance getting closer, soft touch of wind on his face.

He wasn’t surprised at all when another Dalish stepped into the path, said something quietly to one of the guards, making him come closer and stand over Zevran. The assassin didn’t open his eyes until he felt the man’s shadow falling over him.

“Yes?” He inquired with an air of bored politeness, while preparing himself to strike in case the Dalish man turned aggressive.

“The First wants to see you, flat-ear,” Zevran raised one of his brows. That was actually a surprise. “The rest of you can go to back to your camp. Stay there and don’t do anything stupid.” The speaking elf was still nervous and tense, obviously thrown off the kilter, but the heavy air of hostility was gone.

“Where’s Tavaris?” Alistair demanded, scrambling clumsily to his feet. “If he’s hurt…”

“Calm down, _shem_. _”_  The guard sighed quietly. “ _Dorf_ _’amelan’lin_ still talks with the First, making arrangements for the evening. They requested the flat-ear’s presence, but they both should come back before the rites start.  There’s no reason to throw threats.”

“I see no reason to —” Alistair started again, obstinate as usual, but Leliana put a hand on his shoulder and whispered something to him. The Templar sighed heavily. “Fine. But if he doesn’t come back, I’ll come to search for him and I don’t care…”

“Alistair, stop,” Leliana said, this time louder.

“Listen to her,” Zevran advised. “He can handle himself and he’s feeling better now, but I’ll look after him, if it makes you feel better.”

The look Alistair gave him said clearly that it _didn_ _’t_ make him feel better, _at all_ , but luckily he didn’t offer any further protests. Zevran stood up, making an exaggerated scene of flicking dirt off his pants and followed after the Dalish who led him into the main camp.

 

The camp was a flurry of preparations. The landships were moved, small fires extinguished and disassembled and a bigger, oddly shaped hearth was currently being constructed in the middle of the cleared space.

Some of the children were busy literally _sweeping the forest floor_ , covering the ashes left from the fires with pine needles and distributing the rest evenly in the designated ritual area. A little bit further, behind the line of moved landships, new fires were lit and some people were gathered there, apparently busy with cooking or, maybe, brewing.

He would easily miss Tavaris, standing to the side with Lanaya and talking quietly, since he blended with the clan seamlessly, if not for the fact that the two of them were the only ones who didn’t seem to be engaged in the frantic preparations.

Their postures were open and mostly relaxed, even if Lanaya showed traces of the same rigidness that plagued her whole clan. They didn’t notice them, chatting amiably, as Zevran’s guardian gestured in their direction and walked away without a word, leaving the assassin alone in the middle of the camp.

He briefly wondered if that was a sign of trust or complete dismissal, but before he came to any conclusion Tavaris noticed him and beamed.

“Zevran!” He greeted him warmly and turned to the First. “This is the man I was speaking about, _Sael_. He’s very dear to me and I would hate for him to lose this opportunity.”

A polite greeting froze on Zevran’s lips, as he listened to the introduction. He wasn’t sure which part of that statement felt more odd: the fact that Tavaris spoke of him, that he introduced him as someone ‘dear’, or the fact he spoke of an ‘opportunity’ all of a sudden.

The First turned to him, her smile more tentative than Tav’s, but still friendly.

_“_ _En'an'sal'en, lethallan,_ _”_ she greeted him. “We have not been properly introduced in that whole mess, and _Dorf_ _’amelan’lin_ Tavaris informed me that it was a serious oversight on our side. Please, accept my apology.”

He regained his composure and bowed slightly, a half-formal Antivan bow — enough to denote respect without being overly humbling. He wasn’t sure if the gesture was clear for the elves, but it was better than nothing when the First seemed to be rather polite.

“No harm done, _senora._ ” He had no idea what the proper honorifics for a Dalish First would be, so he stuck with the safe option of playing ‘polite but clueless foreigner’ — though he wasn’t sure if it was still playing if he was indeed clueless and foreign. “We came in a time of trouble for you and your people, it’s normal that some rules of politeness wouldn’t be observed. You had much more serious problems than entertaining an uninvited foreigner.”

There was a mute exchange of slightly resigned looks between Tavaris and Lanaya and Zevran wondered what it was about. When the First spoke again, to Tavaris this time, her tone was sympathetic.

“I see what you were talking about, _lethallan,_ ” she said before turning back to Zevran. “Tavaris told me you are a _unir_ _’vera esha’lin,”_ she looked at his blank face and corrected herself, realizing that he didn’t understand what she was saying. “A stolen child, I mean. Your mother was Dalish, right?”

He looked at her, taken aback and for a moment considered lying and running away. Why would Tavaris reveal something so personal about him? He stopped himself, immediately seeing the flaw in this kind of thinking. _Of course_ he would reveal intimate things about Zevran and it was only his own fault for ever telling them in the first place. He was an idiot for sharing a secret and expecting it not to be used. He was a Crow, even if disgraced. He should had known better.

His smile was stiff when he answered. “She was. Unfortunately I cannot tell you much more about her. She died when I was born, among the humans, and I was never a part of a clan.”

There was a pitying look on her face that was hard to stomach and Zevran steeled himself. He didn’t need to aggravate anyone, he needed to quickly learn what they wanted and excuse himself without causing an incident.

Tavaris looked at him with an apologetic expression, apparently more observant than usual,  for once.

“I’m sorry for speaking about you without asking you first, _ma_ _’halla_. But… I was invited to the _Suledin_ rites for Zathrian and I asked for this invitation to include you and I had to explain why I was asking, because that’s not something we share with the outsiders.”

Zevran was close to pointing out that he _was_ an outsider, but kept his mouth shut. Lanaya spoke again, still with that awful pity written all over her face.

“Tavaris asked on your behalf because you were stolen from your people and from your heritage and he believes you deserve a chance of reclaiming it. He can’t offer you a clan, but I can. Join us in the rites, _da_ _’len,_ see, what it means to be a Dalish. Give yourself a chance to learn.”

It was quite a quagmire. He was tempted, really tempted to reject the invitation, laugh it off and leave to vent. That was much more personal than he liked. But there were armed Dalish everywhere, who could not take kindly to his casual disdain for their customs and the honour he was supposedly granted — and there was Tavaris, who would be wounded and offended as well. And while he could probably escape the clan, he _liked_ and _needed_ the Warden. They would be both much more comfortable if he humoured him, spend an evening, or even a night with the Dalish, playing along and pretended he was deeply touched. It was meaningless, anyway.

“Thank you,” he finally said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “I’ll be honoured to join you.”

What was a night of pretending and digging out the memories of a mother he never knew, compared to his training and things he had to endure during it. Absolutely nothing.

 

They left soon after, after Zevran explained that their companions were rather anxious about the situation. Tavaris dawdled a bit, but at the assassin’s insistence he said his farewells, promising they’ll be back before the sunset. Zevran hoped he’d have some of that time for himself — he could have been losing his edge, but that whole situation touched things he’d prefer not to have touched. He could use some alone time to ground himself  before all that emotional turmoil became a source of fatal missteps.

Tavaris walked with him in silence until after they left the hearing range of the sentries. As soon as they reached a more private spot he turned around and pressed a surprise kiss into the assassin’s lips. It was obviously meant to be sweet and short, but then another peck followed and the next thing Zevran knew was that he was pulling his partner close, one hand on the small of his back, another entangled into his loose braid, and kissing him hungrily.

Tavaris whispered something in elvish against his lips, his tone low and sultry and then pushed gently away with a wistful expression on his pretty face.

Zevran smirked, chasing after him and got another kiss in reward.

“Were you talking dirty to me, _querido_?” He teased, leaning down to nip at Tav’s delicate ear. As it could be expected, the hunter blushed. What was less expected, was the answer.

“Actually, almost,” he admitted. “I’m…” He stumbled over the words. “I wish we could just retire into my tent and stay there.” He clearly wanted to say something else at first, but the sentiment was as obvious as his half-erection pressed into Zevran’s thigh.

“We have almost a whole day, _querido_ , we’ve got food and nothing pressing to do,” the Crow reasoned quietly and run the tip of his tongue along the long earlobe. Tav’s ears were much longer than his own and slightly slimmer — it would be an undesirable trait in a city elf, since they were almost impossible to hide, but Zevran personally always found it very appealing. There was something graceful and proud about this distinguishably elven shape — or maybe it was just the fact that long ears were commonly associated with sensuality and the assassin let that superstition influence him.

The folk wisdom said that the longer the elven ears, the more sensitive they were. Nothing the assassin saw so far seemed to disprove it and he was tempted to see how true were these words for Tavaris — judging by the muted whimpers building in the Warden’s throat as he mouthed along the subtle appendages that could be a very enjoyable experiment.

“We can’t,” the hunter moaned and Zevran, busy with his ears, had to take a few seconds to remember what he was talking about. “You don’t do…” He paused and Zevran was sure he was searching for some awful euphemism to describe sex, so it came as a surprised when he turned his head and looked the Antivan deep in the eye before trying again. “You aren’t supposed to… have sex before the rites.” He said, almost without a stutter. It was commendable and adorable at once, since this display of assertiveness turned his ears a deep shade of pink.

He usually wouldn’t press, but he really wanted sex now. It was nice, easy, pleasurable and perfectly cleared the mind of the troubles, at least for some time. So he bend lower, moving his lips to a sensitive spot near Tavaris’ jaw and murmured against his skin.

“Would it be really so bad to stretch this rule a bit?” A kiss, a flick of the tongue on that strategic spot. “I don’t want to offend, but you’re so delectable right now.” A bit higher, closer to the ear, a playful nip. “And I’m really happy to have you healthy and in this gorgeous body.” A shift of his hips, pressing his erection against Tav’s stomach. The leathers between them were stiff, but there was a chance that the hunter would still get a hint. “And I would really like to ravish you right now.”

Tavaris groaned, tilting his head back. He looked like a man struggling with an impossible choice. Zevran smirked and nosed gently along the ear he was caressing earlier. “Please, _querido_ ,” he purred.

“If this was only a matter of tradition, you’d have me convinced already,” Tavaris admitted. “I really, really want you and after these last few days…” He sighed, shifting away from the assassin and holding him stiffly at the arm’s length. “But we’re really going to need that energy later, so I must say no.”

That was intriguing. He gave Tavaris his best rakish smile as he asked, “Oh? Save our energy, you say? You aren’t trying to tell me that I was unwittingly invited to a ritual orgy, no? Because if you are, I must ensure you I’m not going to hold a little orgy against you.”

He didn’t think there would be an orgy, no, not really. Not with Tavaris’ virginal shyness, not with the crazy ideas he seemed to have about sex. But then, religious people did all the kinds of weird stuff and liked to rationalize it in most ridiculous ways, to he didn’t deny that he still had a silver of hope that maybe he’d be pleasantly mistaken. Alas, Tavaris blushed even more and shook his head emphatically.

“No! Zevran! No!” He sputtered. “What, in the Creators name, even gave you that idea?!” Before the assassin managed to react, the Dalish raised both his hands in a defensive gesture. “No, please, don’t tell me. It’s you. Of course it was the first thing that came to your mind.” He looked half panicked as he took deep breaths and Zevran couldn’t hold his laughter in any longer. He almost choked on it, as he mindlessly caught one of Tav’s hands, pressing a tender kiss to his palm. There were tears in his eyes when he let his lover go and Tavaris was watching him in bewilderment.

“I am sorry, _querido_ , I couldn’t stop myself from teasing you a bit,” he admitted. “You have the most wondrous reactions. But, and this I ask on much more serious note, I have no idea what I am for. What should I expect? How should I behave?”

This calmed the hunter down  a little and he smiled bashfully.

“I have never seen you laugh like this before,” he observed. “It suits you, and if I need to be the butt of a joke to see it, I can bear it. And what should you expect…” He paused, rubbing his chin. “I don’t think I can really describe it to you. There will be singing and drums, some magic, we’ll ask Zathrian if he has anything that needs to be taken care of and wish him safe travels. And we’ll tell stories in his memory. Lanaya will get blessing to lead her clan. But…” There was a hesitation in his voice. “It will be special, I promise, and nothing bad will happen to you. I’m not a storyteller, I’m not good with the words, so I can’t really describe what will happen. But it will be an experience you’re unlikely to forget, this I promise.”

Zevran doubted it — in his experience religious ceremonies tended to be tedious and dull. But there was earnestness in Tavaris face and he seemed to really anticipate the event, so the assassin gave him the benefit of the doubt — which was something he rarely did.

“Well, then I shall wait to see it for myself,” he said with an easy smile. “Anything else?”

Tavaris bit his lips and offered a few more advices: to wear something white if he could find it — even a token, if nothing more, loose his braids, so the soul wouldn’t get tangled in it, and the final bit, which came with a sad smile.

“And, of course, it would be better if they didn’t notice we’re sleeping together. I speak of you to them as I would of a dear friend, not a lover, and it would be best to keep this illusion.” It was evident from his tone that this part soured his mood. “They shouldn’t do much if they knew, but I might lose some goodwill I gathered so far and I wouldn’t want them to change their minds and decide that they won’t send aid to a deviant who lies with a man instead of women.”

Zevran sighed deeply and pulled Tavaris back in an embrace.

“I get it, I’ll behave and I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he promised, inhaling the smell of the hunter’s hair. “But don’t speak of yourself in these words, _querido_. Don’t hurt yourself with your people’s prejudices. There’s nothing wrong or bad about your pleasures and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“But…” Tavaris voice was slightly choked and Zevran pulled away a little, just to look the young man in the face.

“Nothing _wrong_ , Tavaris,” he repeated seriously. “I’m not sure what _good_ or _right_ looks like, but I have seen plenty of _wrong._ Believe me, when I say — that’s not it.”

The hunter shook slightly — a stifled sob, perhaps? — but his eyes were clear and bright.

“Thank you, _vehnan._ _”_ There was a soft smile on his lips as he stood on his tiptoes to give Zevran an uncomfortably chaste peck on the cheek. The assassin barely restrained himself from flinching — people never kissed him like _that_ — but Tavaris, being his usual oblivious self, fortunately hadn’t noticed.

“I… I am sorry for putting you on the spot like that,” he said quietly. “With the First, I mean. I should’ve asked you first, but I panicked a bit at the invitation.”

That… was unexpected.

“How is so?” Zevran prompted, seeing that the hunter was bottling up again, the difficulty of sifting through his own thoughts clearly visible on his face.

“I mean…” There was something akin to a desperation on the Dalish man’s face as he struggled to express himself. “All I said was true! I really want to show you the ceremony, it should be shared and you deserve a chance to see it.” His eyes softened. “It _was_ taken away from you and you should at least know if you want it back, right?” He faltered again and Zevran smiled at him, trying to get him to ease up.

“Well, I don’t consider myself ‘stolen’, not really, but there’s certain logic in your words I can’t deny,” he admitted. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that whole business, curiosity and practicality warring in him with indignation. “I’m not mad.” That almost wasn’t a lie — he was angry, but mostly at himself. He shouldn’t had let Tavaris so close. “I know that you had noble intentions. But what else you were trying to tell me?”

Tavaris looked pensively at his feet.

“I really wanted to go, but I didn’t want to go alone,” he admitted quietly after a pause long enough to make Zevran wonder if he’d answer at all. “I miss the clan gatherings, the common rites, all that stuff… But, while I’m not an exile, the truth is I could as well be one. I don’t belong here, I will stuck out like a sore thumb. I wanted someone with me, someone I can trust.”

Zevran should be glad. That was what he was looking for the whole time, wasn’t it? He wanted to get close, to get Tavaris’ trust so he would get a better control over their safety. But this was… wrong. Unexpected. There was no friction, no resistance he’d expected when running a scam. It was just _too_ easy — there were no guards to break, no barriers to overcome. He knew already that Tavaris was trusting, but he just _accepted_ him, without questions, without hesitation, without…

In some ways it was like bracing yourself against a door with an intention of forcing it, only to discover they were opened all along, just as you gracelessly fall through it.

It seemed that Tavaris took Zevran’s prolonged silence as a bad sign. His face fell and he backed out of the assassin’s personal space, looking at the ground with a forlorn expression.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to force you or anything. You don’t have to go, I shouldn’t use you this way, I’ll go tell the First that you changed your mind, don’t worry about it, I’m sorry I pushed you, I should have never…”

Zevran snapped out of his own confusion, grabbing Tav’s hands and looking at him intently.

“You’re babbling, _querido_. Calm down, please,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “I’m not angry and I will gladly come with you if it makes you feel better,” he was surprised to discover he actually meant that. “It’s just… a lot to take, yes? I think I need some alone time now, but I will join you if that’s what you wish for. I just need to gather my thoughts, nothing more, yes?”

One second he saw Tavaris blink slowly and the very next he had his arms full of a beaming young elf, who seemed intent on kissing every single inch of his face.

_“Ma serannas, fenor,_ _nuvas ema ir_ _’enastela, ma melava halani,_ _gaildahlas, serannas, serannas, serannas._ _”_

Zevran chuckled, taken by surprise, but, weirdly enough, not really disturbed by it.

“I don’t need to know elven, _hermoso,_ to know you’re babbling again. Calm down, please.”

The hunter backed off a little, squeezing Zevran’s hands, blushing in embarrassment.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” he said quietly, flustered but still smiling brilliantly. “What I meant to say was: thank you. Take your time, I’ll be in our camp.”

“I’ll be back early enough to prepare,” Zevran promised and turned away, seeking the refuge of the forest.


	10. Suledin rites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW CHAPTER: Dalish rites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here I am, twisting the canon lore to fit with my ideas. I try to keep it more or less consistent with Bioware stuff, but honestly, I feel that the Dalish, as they were shown in games, are bland. We know that the Keepers' magic is powerful (like, slowing the Taint spreading? That's huge!) We know that other people consider them weird and scary, we know that they are aggressive towards humans -- but it's usually told by other characters, not shown and the Dalish we actually meet in the games... Well, they kinda fall flat, when matched to their own legend. So I'm trying to write them a bit wilder, a bit more aggressive, a bit more magical. 
> 
> If anyone is interested how I see this stuff fitting into the canon lore, you can drop me a message. I'll be way too happy to chat.  
> (Or you can leave a comment too, you know, comments are my life's blood.)

He barely managed to keep his word, not familiar with the forests. He wandered off a bit too far and had problem with finding his way back, until he stumbled on one of the sentries. The man pointed him in the camp direction, which was the opposite way to the one he’d picked by himself. Well, _he_ definitely wasn’t born to be traipsing through forests.

Tavaris was already getting ready, dressed in his Dalish leggings and tunic, with white sash tied at his waist. The only thing he wore as a means of protection were his long laminar leg guards, but even those were obviously more of a stylistic than a practical choice. He was fumbling with his braid when he noticed Zevran entering the camp.

“You’re here,” he smiled. “Good. I was getting worried I’ll have to ask Morrigan to look for you.”

“It was close,” Zevran admitted. “But I managed to run into sentries before I run into anything that would like to eat me.”

“I’m glad.” The Warden smiled gently, before getting back to his hair. “ _Fenedhis_ , it’s completely tangled,” he complained, pulling at the messed up hair angrily. “I should probably cut it…” His brilliant smile disappeared, replaced by a furrowed brow when he glared at the knot in his hand.

Zevran sighed, plucking the comb from the hunter’s hand gently, and stepped behind him, starting to carefully untangle messed hair.

“Do you want to cut it?” He asked quietly, working his way through the knots. Tavaris sighed.

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “I was told that my father wore his hair this long — and I don’t have anything else left of him. And there’s lots of meaning associated with the hair… But maybe I should.” His shoulders slumped. “My life has changed a lot.”

“If you don’t want to cut it, then don’t,” the assassin was much more efficient with straightening the tangles than the frustrated Dalish. The thick, honey-blond curtain of hair that hung nearly to his knees had a decadently luxurious feel. Zevran felt it would be a waste to destroy something so beautiful, but he kept that opinion to himself. If Tav wanted to shave his head right now, it was his decision. Instead he asked about tips about his own outfit, getting disappointingly little in return.

“White for the dead, no braids, it’s considered rude to bring weapons,” Tavaris repeated. “Otherwise it doesn’t really matter.”

“I don’t want to offend anyone by an accident, _querido_. These are your people, help me,” Zevran pleaded.

“You won’t offend anyone, _gaildahlas_. Not with the outfit,” the hunter assured, bending down and picking a small box from the bag lying at his feet. “I have a white sash for you if you want it.”

“Thank you.” He watched curiously over Tavaris’ shoulder as the Warden popped the box open, revealing black paste and a short stick with rounded ends. “Wait… Is that…?”

“This?” Tavaris lifted the box. “Ugh, that’s _banal_ _’hasse_? We use it to protect eyes from sharp light in winter, or sometimes for enhancing _vallaslin_ and for decoration. I thought about tracing mine, but… I don’t want to look at a mirror. They make me uneasy lately.”

“Huh, that’s interesting,” Zevran said, taking the paste away from the younger man and examining it carefully. “Some desert tribes in Antiva and northern Tevinter make a similar cosmetic,” he explained, picking the stick and dipping it in the _banal_ _’hasse_. It was thinner than kohl he was used to, but after tracing a line on his hand he decided it sticked well to the skin. “The original purpose was very similar, but it became very fashionable in Antiva. Nobles, whores and assassins, we all wear it, sometimes mixed with golden powder.” He smiled. “I can trace your tattoos if you want. And maybe add an Antivan twist, if you wish to?”

“You should prepare yourself,” Tavaris answered quietly. “I don’t want to take your time.”

“You said yourself that it doesn’t really matter what I wear, and it’s not like I have a big choice. It will take but a moment. So? Do you want me to paint you?”

“If you wish to,” the hunter blushed slightly.

“And the Antivan details? We decorate the eyes, to make them more pronounced.”

“As long as it doesn’t obscure the _vallaslin_ pattern. I don’t have many lines around the eyes, so as long as they don’t overlap it should be fine.”

Zevran hummed, studying Tavaris’ tattoos carefully. There were, indeed, thin lines under the eyes, but much lower than he’d like to paint.

“I’ll get you a mirror when I’m finished, just for a moment, and you can wipe it off if my ideas won’t work for you, is that fine?”

Tavaris nodded his agreement, a bit stiff at the idea of handling a mirror, but the promise of making it brief was enough. Zevran coaxed him to sit down and set to work.

He hadn’t painted, tattooed or drawn for a long time, but the pattern was simple and there was almost no artistry in such a simple make up.  He traced the lines gently with his fingers when the paint started to dry off and wondered briefly how Tavaris would look with one of his own designs instead. Or, since his face was surely out of the question, maybe somewhere else. The _vallaslin_ curved down his neck and chest to his sides and then over his hips to his tailbone. But maybe arms? Shoulders? Back? Flowers, or mayhap birds? If he had some parchment and charcoal he would gladly amuse himself with creating possible designs, but, unfortunately this was impossible now. Maybe Bodhan would have something useful in his stock.

He bit his lip, adding the finished touches on the eye make up and waved Leliana to them. Tavaris opened his eyes.

“Do you have a mirror perhaps?” He asked the bard, admiring his handiwork. The _vallaslin_ was much more visible now and in Zevran’s opinion, the winged eyeliner was corresponding nicely with the traditional pattern. Tavaris’ huge eyes were simply made for this kind of decoration.

“Yes, I should have something,” she said, rather distracted, then looked at Tavaris. “Oh my!”

“Quite handsome, don’t you agree, my fair lady?” Zevran commented smugly, pretty satisfied with the effect.

Leliana smiled softly at Tavaris.

“The girls will be all over you, I’m sure,” she teased gently. The young elf blushed.

“I’d prefer them not to,” he grumbled. “May I see?”

“Oh, sure. Let me get it.” She left for her bags. Zevran continued to appreciate the view, torn between his tattoo ideas and remembering how the young elf looked in his tent, naked and in throes of passion. Something must had shown on his face, as Tavaris looked up at him, slightly alarmed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked.

“Oh, I just wonder how bad it would be if we ended up in your tent instead of the ceremony. I must admit I’m getting rather partial to that idea.”

Tavaris scoffed, wrinkling his nose adorably.

“I don’t know about you, but I am going to the rites,” he answered. “Do something about your hair, at least, if you’re going with me.”

Zevran chuckled.

“There’s no way I can tempt you?” He asked, more in jest than anything else. “You look rather fetching and I’m afraid I’m going to get jealous over these girls that will throw themselves at you.”

Tavaris face reddened again. “Nobody is going to throw themselves at me, Zevran. I am a stranger and I am a Warden, living without a clan. No girl would look at me twice.”

“I think you understate your charms, _querido_.” Zevran smiled, as Leliana came back with the mirror. “Is that to your liking?”

“I hope so!” The girl chimed in. “You look absolutely fantastic, Tav.”

The young man studied his own face for a moment, then nodded briefly.

“Yes, I think it works. The lines fit well enough they could be an alternative pattern. Thank you, _vhenan._ ”

“It was my pleasure,” Zevran bend over the Dalish to kiss him briefly. “Now I’m going to find something to wear, and if I could borrow a little of that paint I’d be most grateful.”

 

If Zevran was honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he should have set more time for his own preparations. He hadn’t had much in the way of clothing — three shirts, one in a dire need of washing, two pairs of trousers, his coat and the white sash Tavaris managed to procure. Supposedly it wasn’t a big problem — Tavaris had said after all that the clothes didn’t matter much. But the hunter had paid a lot of attention to his appearance, going as far as getting make up supplies. And _he_ was Zevran Arainai, the Golden Scourge of Antiva City, the notorious heartbreaker and infamous menace of fathers and husbands. People here didn’t know his reputation, but it _existed_ and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t live up to it. It didn’t matter that he was to attend a weird Dalish ceremony in the middle of the forest. He had to do it in style.

Which wasn’t easy when he had only his plain travelling clothes and bloodstained armour. Had he had more time, he’d clean it — it was a good Antivan leather, after all, with its gilded details and intricate patterns stamped on it. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that it was his favourite possession since he lost his bags and poison box after the ambush. 

He briefly thought of the beautiful silks he left in the flat he shared with Tali. Vests of leather soft like a dream and lavish brocade. He had had, of course, plain clothing for when his job required blending in — but he was good enough that no one ever bat an eye when he brought the bills from artisans for items which only purpose was to make him more comfortable — at least as long as he paced them enough.

But now these things were as good as gone, the House probably selling them back or distributing among the others now that they thought him dead — and all he was left with were crude Fereldan linens and wool. Fereldans were barbarians, he lamented quietly, but fortunately the Dalish weren’t much better.

Finally he settled on the brown shirt in a shade that could pass for a dark red, clean trousers — the fit wasn’t the best, but what could be expected when they weren’t tailored to him. His belt would be good to go after a quick washing, but he remembered the sash so he let the leather go, albeit reluctantly. The boots could use more thorough cleaning, but there was no time for more than a brief wiping. The gloves were barely good enough for the field, so he left them on the bedroll. He should start looking for the replacements.

Tavaris found him in the tent, as he was adding the finishing touches on his own eyeliner in an attempt to salvage his wounded pride.

“You promised me, you’d be quick,” the younger elf teased him gently.

“That was before I almost started resenting you for making me leave all the decent clothes I had with me,” Zevran answered without thinking and turned to the Warden. “Fereldans have no taste and no refinement at all and there’s nothing I can do to look even remotely presentable.”

 Tavaris’ face fell abruptly and the assassin realized what he said.

“I’m so sorry, _lath_. I wanted to get your things, but they were already angry at me for inviting you to join us in the first place and…”

Zevran caught his face and silenced him with a brief kiss.

“Shh, _querido_ , calm down. I understand your reasons, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m just slightly bothered, because…” He paused for a moment, then offered Tavaris a lopsided smirk. “Well, some people would probably call me vain, but I’d prefer to say that I hold myself to high aesthetic standards. And that ceremony is important to you, so…”

Tavaris sighed and reached behind himself, pulling something from the back of his sash.

“Then maybe this will cheer you up a bit?” He asked, offering Zevran a pair of gloves made of soft leather. They were pretty, with delicate patterns stamped on them, but also practical enough, with holes cut for the fingertips. “I can get you matching bracers if you wish, too…”

“Gloves,” Zevran said, slightly dumbfounded, reaching for them mechanically. He didn’t think that Tavaris noticed the sorry state of the ones he already owned — why would he? But here he was, presenting him a new pair. “Why are you giving me gloves?”

“Well, I saw them among Varathorn’s crafts and thought about things you told me…” The young elf looked at his feet again, his hands balling into fists. “About your mother, I mean, and the gloves that were taken from you… I don’t know how they looked like, but this is a very traditional pattern, so I thought…”

So, this was not meant as a simple equipment fix. Zevran run his fingers along the leather… The gloves he owned as a child were different, the leather was a bit softer and thinner, the shade was darker and they were full, not suitable for subtle manual jobs like this pair was. Yet the pattern was very similar, the stylized hallas with elaborate horns, weaved with leaves and flowers. They weren’t very long or protective, and if he used them regularly he would indeed have some use for fitting bracers, but they were beautiful and stirred half-forgotten memories.

“Maker’s breath… You’re right. It is like my mother’s,” he answered quietly, studying the gloves carefully. “The leather was less thick and darker, maybe from its age. And they had more embroidery. But these are really close. And quite handsome.”

Tavaris smirked, unballing his fists and looking up at Zevran.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his tone a tad teasing. The assassin chuckled quietly.

“Do I seem surprised?” He asked. “Maybe I am. But I appreciate that you even thought of me. Nobody has simply… given me a gift before. And such a well-thought one at that. Thank you.”

 “Then it’s a good thing I fixed that oversight,” the Warden smiled softly. “Now, let’s go, we’re going to be late.”

 

Tavaris seemed to be in a weird mood as they walked the path to the main camp. He seemed at once giddy with anticipation and hesitant to get there. The sun was slowly setting down and it was getting darker as they reached their destination. Zevran could easily see the big fire already lit in the middle of the camp and elves gathering around it… when Tavaris suddenly stopped.

“Is there a problem, my Warden?” He asked, noticing the half-panicked expression on his face.

“They’ll see me,” the young hunter said, his voice thick with nerves. “What if they’ll throw me out?”

“Tavaris, you were _invited_ by the First.” Zevran didn’t see the problem. “If anyone should worry, it’s me — it’s not like they wished me to take part in this in the first place. But you belong there. You’re Dalish.”

“You don’t understand, Zev,” Tavaris looked at him, his eyes wide. “They’ll _see_ me.”

Zevran rolled his eyes in exasperation and pulled the younger man by his elbow.

“Of course, they will see you. We’re not exactly hiding.”

“But, Zevran!” The hunter protested, but it was too late, as the assassin dragged him decisively into the camp proper. The younger man wanted to bolt, but, fortunately, one of the Dalish noticed them already.

“ _Dorf_ _’amelan’lin_ ,” he greeted in friendly tone, adding a few sentences in elven then turned to Zevran. “And you’re welcome too, _lethallin._ It’s a happy day when one of our people comes back. My name is Camlen and it’s a joy to greet you.”

“I’m Zevran,” the assassin answered and looked for rescue to his lover. He wasn’t sure what he should say, especially that the warm greeting stirred new discomfort in him. He wasn’t _coming back_. He just came with a visit for the sake of appearances, but it wasn’t like he could tell _that._

Tavaris smiled, a bit stiffly.

“Thank you, Camlen. We’re both very grateful for the invitation. How long till we begin?”

“Just a moment. They’re pouring _somniar shiral_ already, so it’s a good time to find a place by the fire and maybe some drums, if you prefer them to singing.”

“Neither of us is fluent in Tavella songs, so we’ll just do it.” Tavaris nodded gratefully and gestured at Zevran to follow. He looked stiff, nervous, his shoulders square as if he was preparing for a battle, when he walked past the fire to look for the drums. The craftsman — Varathorn — was there, handling out the instruments with a sad smile. The hunter got two and handed one to Zevran, who accepted it with a courteous nod. He felt lost, without any idea what he should do there besides following Tavaris, and started to think that accepting the invitation might had been a bad idea. Especially with the weird shift of Mahariel’s mood — the assassin had no idea what it was about and didn’t like it.

The Warden was disturbingly silent as he guided them to the fire, snatching cushions from the big pile nearby and found a place — seemingly random — where he put them down. It was only then when he finally spoke.

“The rhythms are easy, you’ll get the hang of it quickly,” he promised, looking up at the assassin with a blank expression. “We’re going to get _somniar shiral_ to drink, don’t worry about it. I don’t know the exact recipe, it varies between the clans, but it’s meant to help you ease up in the rite, there are no unpleasant after effects or anything. You might feel slightly dizzy for a moment when the ritual starts to work and later, when we’ll be closing the ritual space. I…” He hesitated. “I would prepare you better if I knew how… But it’s difficult to describe. Just don’t be alarmed when the things get odd.”

“That’s not very reassuring, my dear Warden,” Zevran observed. “But you wouldn’t hold these rites if they were dangerous, I believe, so I’m going to trust you on that.” He smiled at the small man who still held himself rigidly. “Though the fact that you still look as relaxed as Sten in the morning makes me question my own wisdom,” he teased, hoping to get either an understandable explanation or a calmed Warden.

“Sorry,” Tavaris sat down, pulling his drum close. “It’s… Overwhelming.”

Zevran was opening his mouth to answer, but someone on the opposite side of the fire blew a horn and suddenly all the chatter ceased. Little bowls started to circle around the fire and soon Zevran was offered one too. The man who blew the horn started to chant loudly and Tavaris gestured at his bowl before draining it in one go. Others were drinking too, so Zevran sniffed the purple drink hesitantly. Tav promised that it wasn’t dangerous and the assassin didn’t detect anything alarming — still he was tempted to spill it discreetly on the grass. The hunter was watching him, though, and he said he trusted him — which wasn’t a _complete_ lie — so Zevran sipped at the drink hesitantly. It had a weird taste, an uncommon mixture of fresh and earthen flavours. He detected some embrium, ginger, probably prophet’s laurel… but the rest was an enigma. It wasn’t unpleasant, though, and everyone drunk it, so it had to be safe. He tipped his head, finishing the potion and put the bowl upside down at his feet as he saw the others do.

Other voices joined the first one and the song started to get more and more melodic. The first drummers joined, beating a fast, but steady rhythm. There was no clear order to that, everybody joining at their own leisure, with slightly different tones and cadences. Soon Tavaris picked his own drum and started to play, adding his own twists to the common beat.

It should sound cacophonous, with about hundred of people, each singing and playing their own variation of the song, but the result was surprisingly harmonic. The ground vibrated with music and Zevran started to feel its pull by the time he reached for his own instrument and started to play, at first trying to copy Tavaris, but then, without even meaning to, adding some beats he grew up with.

It was weird experience, as he grew immersed in the music. There was a palpable feeling of getting joined with the others, something akin to a warm embrace, with wild energy pulsing in the air… And suddenly he was pulsing in the air too, getting more and more detached from his body as he felt more and more connected to the chanting clan.

A new voice joined, clear and easily discernible over the main chorus and Zevran somehow knew it was Lanaya…

…and then it happened.

A weird pull and twist on reality, and there was this dizziness Tav spoke about, and he was falling back into his own body, almost flinching but too caught up with the energy flowing through the gathering to manage such a move… and then it was silence. He was still drumming, he knew it, his hands moved, but the drums no longer made any sound. The connection with the clan seemed even stronger now, but at the same time he felt alone, and there was a painful throbbing in his chest that for some reason made him think of Rinna and his mother.

He looked around and the Dalish were still sitting there, many of them glowing slightly. Lanaya was standing next to the fire, but he couldn’t see her clearly, as she was a pillar of a white light. He looked to his right, at Tavaris and the Warden was still there, still playing, but…

…he looked differently. He was glowing, a soft, golden light, doubly so where the lines of his tattoos were, but his fair skin was marred with dark splotches, ugly black spots of a sickness. And as he looked at Zevran he saw that his beautiful, grey eyes were no longer clean, instead covered with a white film of blindness. And he was crying.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to speak, so he reached up to touch his lover’s cheek — somehow still drumming, though it seemed impossible — only to jerk away as he noticed his own hands. There were no soft Dalish gloves on them anymore, instead he saw painfully familiar gauntlet of the Crow armour, black leather and steel shaped to resemble talons. He left these in Antiva, with the whole ensemble, but now, as he looked at his body, he saw he was clad in it, all of it, together with the black cape — and, as he reached up to his head, the steel mask crafted into a bird skull too, tilted up as he would wear it when he wanted to be both recognized and feared.

Tavaris looked up at him, tears still flowing from his blurred eyes, unseeing but seeing somehow. And then his face morphed into an expression of awe, as he reached up to Zevran’s cheek, where his tattoos were.

“It’s a _vallaslin_ ,” he whispered, enchanted. “And it’s blessed.”

Talking was allowed then.

 _“Querido_ , what happened to you? And what’s all that?”

“It’s the Taint,” he answered, dropping his hand and looking at it with a pained expression. “It burns again.” He paused. “That’s what I was afraid of them seeing.”

Only now Zevran turned his eyes away from the Warden to look around. The Dalish sitting nearby seemed to move away from them, some of them with scared expressions, some simply bewildered.

Well, it was understandable, the assassin thought sourly. Suddenly, instead of their guests, they saw a Crow in full ceremonial armour and a man suffering from the Blight sickness. It could be disturbing.

But the elves around them changed too. Zevran didn’t know them well enough, but he was sure that the woman next to Tavaris seemed older before the rites began. The man few places down the circle surely hadn’t had a gaping wound in his chest. Neither had the girl next to him.

Tavaris sighed, looking back at Zevran.

“We fixed the world for a moment. It’s how it should have been all along,” he said in a way of explanation, but it explained nothing. “And thanks to it, we can see each other as we are. And talk to the people that aren’t here anymore.” He gestured somewhere further away and saw people engaged in a conversation with a man that seemed more blurry than the others. As the assassin studied the gathering, he noticed that there seemed to be many more people around the fire now, and some of the Dalish were looking expectantly around, as if they were waiting for someone to come.

It was crazy. Just crazy.

But then, he still felt that warm embrace of the clan, the feeling not diminished even by the suspicious glances from some of the closer clan members.

“Fixed how?” He asked incredulously, because nothing better came to his mind. Tavaris shrugged helplessly.

“I’m not a Keeper, I don’t really understand that stuff. But things were broken somehow when Arlathan fell and… well, here we are.”

Zevran wanted to ask more questions — he was sure he had more questions — but before he managed to sort them out, Lanaya spoke — of course in elven, but Zevran recognized Zathrian’s name.

She wasn’t speaking loudly, but somehow her voice carried over everything else. Not that he heard much — he realized that the only other sound he heard since that weird twist in reality was Tavaris’ voice, and only when he spoke directly to him. He was obviously sobbing, too, but that sound didn’t carry to the assassin’s ears.

Lanaya continued to speak, her voice starting to get urgent, desperate, and suddenly the fire — the whole fire — bend and spun and twisted and suddenly Zathrian was standing in its place, glowing like the embers.

…Zevran _knew_ it was Zathrian, by some odd sixth sense, otherwise he wouldn’t recognize the man at all. He didn’t look as a man in the first place, but some misshapen creature made of fire, which — as if it wasn’t confusing enough — bled from numerous wounds. Given the shocked expression of the gathered Dalish, it wasn’t supposed to look like that.

The old Keeper roared and twisted and managed to push himself into a more elvish form — even if it still wasn’t exactly what it should. He waited a while, as if checking if he could hold it, and then he started to talk.

Zevran couldn’t understand a single word, but he saw horrified expression of the Tavella and felt the overwhelming regret radiating from the old man. It was hard to bear, at least until Tavaris caught his hand and clutched it tightly, evidently as shaken as the members of the clan.

Lanaya answered something, grief mixing with anger in his tone and Zathrian fell to… what was supposedly his knees.

“ _Ir abelas,_ ” he said and dissolved into light.

There was a brief surge of panic and the pillar of light that was Lanaya lurched forward, expanding, as if she was trying to grasp the disappearing light. Zevran wasn’t sure what happened, but there was a blast of light and the collective emotion turned to sudden relief, and then they were falling again.

He shook awake to see the fire where it was before, hear the drums and the faltering song. Tavaris was still holding his hand, knuckles almost white over the Dalish glove.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” the hunter murmured, shaking his head to get rid of dizziness. “Usually there’s a feast and dances after, but I doubt anyone is in mood after what happened.”

“And _what_ had happened?” Zevran asked, distraught. If he knew what he was in for, he’d declined the invitation, the consequences be damned. It was scary and intimate, and breached his privacy in a way he didn’t know was possible. Though, Tavaris didn’t lie when he said it was an unique experience he was not likely to forget.

“Zathrian. He confessed his sins, but that hatred that held him? It almost destroyed him. They almost lost a Keeper, without a proper succession. Lanaya managed to salvage what was left and caught the clan’s life-thread before it dissolved, but it was a close call.”  He looked up at Zevran and the assassin was relieved to see that his eyes were clear again. “But you were accepted,” he said with a soft smile. “ _Evanuris_ watch over you despite everything.”

“What?” Zevran was tired and still unsure how he felt about the things he saw during the rites and just wanted to go to sleep, but he remembered Tav’s awed expression when they were… Wherever it was.

“Your tattoos. They glowed like a _vallaslin_ would. It’s almost unheard of, but it’s said it’s one of the _Evanuris_ marking you as theirs, a blessing. It was blue, though, I’m not sure…” He bit his lip. “I would ask, but Lanaya is surely exhausted and everyone is pretty upset. I think it would be best if we went to get some rest.”

Zevran nodded absentmindedly, standing up from his spot. Rest was surely a good idea. He needed some time to sort out the clashing feelings and thoughts the evening provoked — it was simply _too much_ to take. He was turning to leave already, when Tavaris stood up and stumbled immediately, legs giving away under him. The assassin wasn’t sure when or why he jumped to the Warden’s side, catching him by an elbow.

“You alright?” He asked warily. Tav shook his head slightly, briefly closing his eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” he answered, his voice low and measured. “It’s just… It takes a toll on the body, right? And I’m not sure, if it’s the result of that bite, or… being a Warden, but it seems that it was a bit too much.”

“Let me take you to bed, my Warden,” Zevran suggested, wrapping his arm around Tavaris’ waist and letting him put his weight on him. Only afterwards he realized he was supposed to keep his hands to yourself. Or that he was almost getting angry at the hunter the mere moments ago.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said sourly instead, leading the wobbly Warden away from the fire. “Or ask me to come, for that matter. You are still recovering and I don’t belong with the Dalish.”

“I”m glad I did,” Tavaris answered quietly, looking at his feet. Zevran could swear that even his ears drooped. “But I am very sorry that you’re disappointed. I wanted to share something beautiful with you, but that fiasco with Zathrian…”

Here it was. A suitable excuse.

“But I’m so very, very happy that I got to share the whole ritual with you, that I got to see _you_ _…_ ” His voice trailed off and Zevran bristled at the mention. Clawed gauntlets and beaked mask. That was, indeed, a _joy_ to see.

“You were in pain,” he said instead, sharper than he was usually wont to. “I saw you crying.”

“It was worth it,” the younger man replied with conviction. “To feel that connection again, even if it wasn’t my clan. To see how beautiful you are…”

He _was_ beautiful, he knew it. That was, after all, the only reason he was paid so handsomely for when he was just a scrawny boy. Why he was taught the art of seduction, among his other skills. And he had to admit, that there was a certain elegance to Crows’ regalia. They were, after all, designed to entice as well as intimidate. An image of a handsome face shadowed by a Crow’s beak held a prominent place in fantasies of bored Antivan housewives — and on pages of popular bodice-rippers recounting the stories of star-crossed lovers.

Somehow Zevran knew that Tavaris had something completely different in mind.

“You’re exhausted and not thinking very clearly,” he answered, pulling Tavaris closer as he stumbled over a root again. “Let me just put you in bed.”

He tried to get the Warden to their camp, he saw it already, fire cracking cheerfully behind the dark trees, but the young man stopped walking, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re angry with me, _vhenan,_ _”_ he said quietly. There was something broken in his voice, something small and completely stripped of his usual resilience.

“I…” Zevran started, stumbling over words as he looked at the Dalish. The young elf seemed to collapse into himself, with his shoulders slumped and eyes trained on the forest floor.

“I’m not happy with you,” the assassin said finally. “I don’t know yet if I’m angry.” It felt odd to admit as much, to drop his amiable and flirtatious mask for the sake of honesty. It felt raw. “I need to process what happened. And you need to sleep, so come on and let me get you to the camp.”

“I…” There was brief pause and Zevran was sure that Tavaris wanted to say something different, but what he settled on was, “I understand. Let’s go.”

 


	11. Rocky roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party travels to the Frostback Mountains. Tensions arise and snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Last week was pretty hectic to me and unfortunately, earning monies for food had to take precedence over the fic. Also, since it seems that I can't simply edit and have to add so much to every single chapter I work on, I have to rethink my updating schedule. So, I can promise one update a week, I'll try to aim for two - but that's not a guarantee.

Despite Alistair’s complaints they stayed with the Dalish for another two days. Tavaris needed to recover and he used this time to discuss with the new Keeper the details of their involvement in the fight against the Blight and to write countless letters. If Zevran was curious about them… Well, he tried his hardest not to. He spend his time sulking.

Well, not sulking. Zevran never sulked. He wasn’t a sulking type. But he did everything in his power to avoid Tavaris’ company and his long, sad stares. As a result, he found himself hanging around Morrigan’s shack, amusing himself by tormenting the witch with endless flirting and questions. He was careful to not push too far, though — as enjoyable as her annoyed scoffs were, he didn’t want to become a target of her real wrath. He saw what she was capable of — or at least what she _had shown_ to be capable of — and he had a deep suspicion that it was only a fraction of her true abilities. That power definitely wasn’t anything he would like to see aimed at him.

Still, as long as the questions weren’t overly intimate and his lewd suggestions sufficiently toned down and softened by quite sincere compliments, Morrigan proved to be surprisingly amiable company. Of course, she threatened him with bodily harm regularly and promised to turn him into some kind of critter once in a while, but otherwise she answered with playful insults and exaggerated grimaces.

She didn’t lose her aloof demeanour, but it wasn’t hard to see past it now that he spend enough time around her. If he really bothered her, she would told him so, in not uncertain terms, while — probably — making good on some of the threats she tossed his way over her books.

She didn’t seem to be very interested in his company though, just merely indulging his quirks when he craved some distraction and enjoyment, so he was genuinely surprised when on the second afternoon she finally put her book down, looking straight at him for the first time.

“So, what is this all about, elf?” She asked. “You should be jumping over the moon with joy, seeing how your tiny plan worked, and yet here you are, brooding like a scorned lover.”

“How is this ‘brooding’?” Zevran answered, torn between feelings of surprise and indignity. “I’m merely adoring your beauty and perfection, nothing more. Such a fine woman deserves praise and I can say that you were unjustly deprived of it, spending so much of your life in the forest.”

“How very generous of you. So, our brave leader isn’t enough for you? After all that effort you went through to get him wrapped around your finger, it seems odd to me to find you here, salivating all over my chest, when you finally got your wish.”

Zevran didn’t tense — he was too well-trained for giving himself away like this — but he felt his innards freeze into a solid ice as surely as they would if the witch caught him with one of her ice spells. He stretched languidly to get rid of that unpleasant sensation, looking at her from under his hooded eyelids.

“I do not know what you are talking about, o fairest of all the mages. I merely wish to serve to the best of my capabilities, as is fit for someone who owes debt do great as I do. There’s no malicious ploy in it.”

Morrigan just scoffed.

“Oh please, don’t insult me with these petty excuses. They might work on someone as dense as Alistair mayhaps, but while I’m not too well-versed in the ways of men, I can see the desperation when in front of my eyes. And you stink of it, assassin.”

Zevran eyed her warily.

“I have no idea…”

Morrigan scrunched her nose in distaste.

“Oh please, just stop it. As long as we’ll do what we’re set to do in the end, I don’t care about your little games. And if you’re afraid I’m going to come running to Tavaris to tell on you…” She snorted. “Don’t you think I’d done it long ago, if I wanted?”

 The assassin throw his hands in the air in a theatrically exaggerated gesture.

“As observant as beautiful, I see,” he sighed deeply. “Fine, you’ve caught me, my enchanting sorceress. I do have a mischievous ploy. I wish to make our brave leader amiable towards me, so he wouldn’t decide to throw me to the Crows when an opportunity arises. Is it foul enough to warrant your scorn?”

Morrigan pursed her lips.

“I never said anything about scorn or judgement. I am merely curious why are you running away from him now. These soulful eyes too much to bear, perhaps?” She smirked and returned to her reading as if they never talked.

“Why do you even ask?” He said, slightly annoyed.

“Just curious, assassin, just curious.” Morrigan didn’t even look up from her book as she turned the page.

 

In the evening Zevran found himself waiting next to Tavaris’ tent. He wasn’t sure if it was the right decision, but before he could change his mind, the younger elf arrived from the path leading to the main camp. He was looking better already, spring back in his step and colour in his cheeks. And, when he noticed the waiting assassin, his whole face brightened up like a chantry on the Prophet’s Day.

Nobody had ever looked at Zevran like that.

“Zev!” He sped up and for a moment it seemed like he was going to jump into his arms, but stopped himself in the last moment. “You aren’t angry with me anymore?”

There were so much hope in his eyes, Zevran thought the boy would shatter if he was rejected again. There was something scary and thrilling in having this kind of power over another. For a brief moment the assassin was tempted to test it, to see how much damage he could do — but he couldn’t bring himself to it.

“I was never angry, _hermoso_ ,” he said with an easy smile instead. “I just had a lot to think about.”

Tavaris relaxed slightly, still looking up at Zevran with such an earnest expression the assassin had to fight not to wince. He saw this look in the eyes of the men looking at gold and precious stones. In the eyes of naive, well-born girls who believed that a night of passion with a bored Crow would turn their dull lives around.

“Will you join me in my tent tonight, then?” The Dalish asked with a brilliant smile and only the lightest touch of blush on the tips of his ears. Well, that was what Zevran was aiming for, wasn’t it?

He let out a playful hum. “Is there something in your tent that needs assassinating, my dear Warden? That’s my speciality after all.”

Tavaris shrugged, the nerves finally leaving him.

“I don’t know,” he answered with a lopsided smile. “I am a wanted man, though. It would be unwise not to check, don’t you think?”

“So I am to play a bodyguard too?” Asked Zevran in a low tone, placing his hands on Tav’s hips. The younger elf leaned into the touch and reached up to press a soft kiss on his lips.

“Hm, why not? I like that idea. It would give me a good reason to keep you close all the time.”

“Well,  I can understand that desire. I’m certainly pleasant to look at.”

“I don’t want just look…” This time Tavaris blushed visibly, adorable patches of red appearing high on his cheekbones. “Now, can we move it, before Tavella see us? They check on us, you know.”

“Oh, well, of course. We need to scout your tent _thoroughly_ , after all. We can’t leave a single spot uninspected,” the assassin purred lowly, pulling on Tavaris’ hips as he manoeuvred him towards the tent. Alistair, who just entered the encampment, dropped his load of twigs next to the fire and groaned loudly, wiping his forehead.

“Again? Sweet Andraste! Just don’t tell me you’re going to be at it the whole night again.”

Tavaris stiffened and immediately ducked into his tent, leaving Zevran to deal with the templar. The Antivan just chuckled, not bothering to mask his lewd stare.

“I can’t say what will happen, my brave Alistair. Tavaris demanded very meticulous inspection of his tent, after all. But maybe you want to join?”  He smiled, running his tongue along his teeth. Alistar turned away abruptly, clutching his eyes.

“For all that is sacred, stop it! I’m not interested!” He forced himself to relax and look back. There was evident begging in his eyes as he asked, “Just… try to keep it low, please?”

Zevran shrugged, ducking into the tent.

“No promises. I like them loud.”

When they moved out the next morning Zevran didn’t bother with his own tent anymore. He had no use for it, as long as his Warden welcomed him with open arms and easy smiles.

 

It was about two weeks later and the morning was cold and damp when Tavaris woke Zevran up. They were lying in a tangled pile of furs and blankets, but the Antivan dreaded the moment they’d have to leave the pleasant warmth of their shared tent. The drops falling on the fabric over their heads sounded like drums on an execution.

“We have a long road before us today,  _ma’nehn_ ," the hunter said with a soft smile, reaching for his clothes. “Better get up.”

“No," murmured the assassin, grabbing Tav’s waist and pulling him back under the furs. “Come back here and let the Darkspawn have their way with Ferelden. It’s a cold hellhole anyway. We could go to Rivain. Or Llomeryn.” He looked in disgust at the waxed cloth above them. “ _After_ this horrendous rain stops.”

The Warden smiled softly.

“I can’t, and you know it.” He pecked Zevran’s lips, rising once again. “It’s my duty to be here. But you can go, if you wish.”

Zevran turned on his back, watching Tavaris carefully. The younger elf fumbled with his clothing in the narrow space and the assassin revelled in opportunity to watch his lean muscles move under his tattoos. It was a captivating view.

“You told me, you never wanted to be a Warden in the first place. Why do you care about ‘the duty’ if it was forced on you?” He asked, reaching languidly out to trace the lines of the _vallaslin_ with his fingertips. “It’s not like anyone’s standing over you, _querido_. We could go and live our lives in delicious debauchery, instead of freezing here.”

“I believe I told you — I would have died if not for the Wardens. It’s a debt I must repay.” Tav looked at him with sadness. “And I need to remember about the clans, too. My Keeper trusted me to keep them safe from the Blight. But you… You don’t have to stay. You’re a free man, Zevran, you can go to your Rivain or Llomeryn… Or wherever you like.”

Zevran looked at the ranger seriously.

“I am sworn to you. I go where you go, at least until we see this through. Or are you telling me to leave?”

Tavaris squeezed his hand with a panicked look in his eyes.

“No, no, no! I don’t want you to leave!” He said. He spoke so quickly that the words merged together under his heavy accent. “I just don’t want you to be here against your will if you’re feeling miserable.”

Zevran chuckled, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Miserable? When I’m sharing a tent with such a beautiful man? You still don’t know a thing about me, do you?”

“I think you’re exaggerating.” Tavaris looked over his shoulder and smiled impishly. Zevran _really_ liked this expression on him. It went straight to his groin. “I _know_ you’re very good at it.”

“Am I?” Zevran pulled his lover closer, nuzzling his face in the crook of Tav’s shoulder. “Would I really do this, if I was?” He slid his hands along the Dalish elf’s taut body, resting them on his hips and bit playfully at his neck. The young man, taken by surprise, moaned loudly.

“Oh, no!” They heard Alistair’s voice outside. “Don’t you even dare! We’re leaving in half an hour!”

Zevran smirked, trailing soft kisses up Tavaris’ neck to his ear and breathed into the sensitive shell, “Are we?”

Tavaris shuddered and looked at him apologetically, pulling away.

“Kind of. Maybe not half an hour, but as soon as we finish the breakfast and pack the camp. Speaking of which, I’m starving.”

“As you wish.” Zevran sat up, ran his hand along Tav’s long braid, and started to search for his own clothes and armour.

Unlike Zevran, Tavaris didn’t dawdle, leaving as soon as he was fully clothed.  The assassin couldn’t force himself to get out in the rain until the pressure in his bladder turned to be unbearable, so as he returned from the edge of the camp, he found the Dalish already preparing the oatmeal.

“You can’t behave this way, Tavaris,” complained Leliana. Zevran obviously caught a tail-end of  a longer rant. “It’s gross. And we can’t sleep at night.”

“Would you mind bringing me some water, Leliana? I don’t want to wait for the rain to fill the pot,” Tavaris answered lightly. It seemed that his tactic for today was pretending he simply hadn’t heard anything pertaining their nightly activities.

“She has a point, Tav," interrupted Alistair. “It is gross. And I feel I already know too many details about your nightly… entertainment from the sounds you two make.”

“I need carrots, Alistair. Besides, have you feed the horses? There’s more rocks than grass around here, I worry they’ll be hungry.”

“Tavaris, you can’t just ignore…!”

The young elf looked up at him with an innocent look in his eyes.

“I can and I will. Feed the horses if you haven’t done it yet. They need time to rest after the meal.”

Zevran couldn’t help but chuckle, watching Alistair leave with a frustrated expression and went to the provisioning sacks to dig for the carrots. Leliana tossed her hands in the air, gesturing wildly with her knife.

“Tavaris…!”

The hunter shrugged, tossed the celery into the pot and reached out to Zevran to get his carrots. On the surface he looked completely at ease, but Zevran didn’t spend the last few weeks carefully studying his expressions for nothing. It was the only reason for which he noticed the slight reddening at the tips of Tav’s ears and a minuscule twitch of his left eye as he fought to hide his embarrassment.

“I’m afraid you won’t get much out of him," he observed lightheartedly. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Morrigan could help with the noise if it’s really such a problem. I know there _are_ silencing spells.”

“Zevran!” The young elf smiled warmly over the peeled carrots, “So you decided to join us in this downpour. Would you mind hacking the roast?”

Zevran smirked tartly, looking up at the sky. From the inside of the tent the light rain sounded much worse than it was, but, in his opinion, it still wasn’t weather meant for being outside.

“I would make a poor bodyguard, if I didn’t follow you, no?" He winked at his lover and went to retrieve the food. There wasn’t much left, but Tavaris made a point of leaving some leftovers every evening, as he liked to have meat in his breakfast.

“Zevran!” This time it was Alistair who turned to the assassin, shouting over the length of the camp. Zevran noticed with some amusement that it was the first time the templar spoke to him, unprompted and without his usual disdain, when others were around. “If Tavaris won’t listen, maybe you will; we’re sick of these... sounds you two make every night. I haven’t got a good night’s rest for a over week.” 

Zevran smiled innocently. He didn’t see any reason to deny himself the little pleasure of needling the man.

“If you can’t sleep then you at least don’t have to worry that I will go and murder you in your bed, no? You were concerned, I believe.”

Tavaris looked at the assassin briefly, and Zevran could swear that the archer was trying hard not to laugh, but he otherwise didn’t make a sign that he even heard the conversation.

Alistair let out an exasperated huff.

“That’s not the point," he answered.

“If Morrigan really has some nifty spell that could ease your nights," interrupted Tavaris, still focused on his carrots. “I’d advise using it.”

“My magic is not for such use. You could just stop," protested Morrigan sharply, but Tavaris looked her in the eye evenly.

“I’ll be probably dead before the year is over. I have no intention of holding back.”

That was a morbid and unpleasant thought, one Zevran didn’t want to examine closely — which was rather silly. He was a Crow, he was familiar with death, _intimately_ , and given their circumstances and Tavaris’ trusting personality, the statement was rather obvious. With the Blight, bandits, scavengers and the political turmoil it would be a miracle if any of them lived past it.  The Dalish, with his naivety and welcoming approach was in even bigger danger than the rest of the group — and Zevran realized he really didn’t want to see him dead. He knew, that the playful assignment as bodyguard was more of a joke than anything… But he _could_ treat it seriously.

It was in Zevran’s best interests anyway.

The oatmeal cooked and Tavaris went to fold down their tent, packing furs and canvas in tight packages. Zevran stayed where he was, watching over the food and looking at Tav’s delicious backside flexing under tight leggings as he bend over their bags. The assassin wasn’t ashamed to admit that he enjoyed the view. What made it even more pleasant was the fact that Tavaris seemed to gain some confidence since meeting the Dalish and it reflected in the way he moved. His movements were no longer stiff and forced as when they met, becoming graceful, languid and loose-boned instead. And sweet Andraste, the result was breathtaking. Zevran rarely saw anyone who would naturally be as alluring as that boy.

He would never wish that kind of life on him, but he was sure that given just a little training Tavaris could easily put to shame some of the finest courtesans he knew. There was so much raw potential there…

“I’d like to hurry today. We have at least five days until we reach Kinloch Hold and I want to be there as soon as possible,” Tavaris said, blissfully unaware of Zevran’s thoughts.  Alistair scowled and paused, looking at Tav from over his own bags.

“Kinloch Hold? We’re supposed to go to search for Haven,” he said, leaning on his half-rolled bedroll.

“Yes, yes, we’ll get there,” answered the elf, waving dismissively. “But the Magi Tower is on the way, so I thought we should stop there for a short while. It won’t take….”

“Over my dead body, Tavaris,” Alistair stopped and stood up, stretching himself to his full height. He wasn’t particularly tall for a human, but he still loomed over the tiny elf. “It’s not really on the way. And we just had a ‘brief stop that will take only a day’. We already spend almost two weeks in that bloody forest. Now we need to find the Sacred Ashes.”

Tavaris’ ears twitched in annoyance. It was so stereotypical gesture Zevran almost chuckled. And a pretty rare one, since most of their fellow elves, including the assassin himself, preferred to train themselves out of this reflex. It was way too easy to be called a rabbit when you emoted with your ears.

“Really, Alistair? You cannot expect us to drop everything to chase that fairytale. For all that we know, Eamon is already dead.”

“We don’t know that!” Alistair’s face turned red as he almost shouted. “And yes, he’s dying, so we can’t afford any more useless delays!”

“Hardly useless." Tavaris stopped his work, looking at the tall human with irritation. “We’re talking about treaties. We _need_ these treaties.”

“The treaties are ancient and can wait a few weeks longer! A man is dying, Tavaris! And if you really can’t find any compassion in yourself, then remember, that Redcliffe means an army too!”

“I find it hard to feel very sympathetic towards a _shemlen_ lord.” Tavaris spat. “Would he be sympathetic towards me if I wasn’t a Warden? Or maybe I would be just a knife-ear, not worthy of consideration? I remember Teagan’s face when he saw me and let me tell you that it doesn’t make me feel too charitable. ” He had worked himself up as he spoke, so he stopped, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. “Besides, we’re sworn to fight the Blight. And the Blight won’t wait until we’re finished chasing your mad dream.”

“We owe it to Isolde, Tavaris! Isolde, who is dead because you, personally, allowed it!”

Tavaris took a step back, looking at Alistair as if he had physically hit him.

“The only thing I did was allowing that irresponsible woman to fix her mistakes. It was her decisions that killed her, not mine.” He spoke slowly, with his jaw clenched almost impossibly.

“You coerced a desperate woman into a blood magic ritual!” Alistair was shouting now and Zevran was torn between an irrational need to save his lover from the angry human and a worry that their little shouting match would attract Darkspawn, bandits or some other unpleasant visitor.  “How does that fix anything for you?”

“How did I coerce her to do anything? She wanted to save her kid — what would you want me to do? Kill a child? A blighted _child_?” Tavaris shook his head with disbelief. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“We could go to the Kinloch Hold, get help…”

“We couldn’t, Alistair!” The elven Warden tossed his hands in the air. “The demon was furious, there was no telling if there would be a Redcliffe to return to if we left.” He took a deep breath fighting to keep his calm. “Besides, we already talked about it, you said you were fine with what happened, so why again?”

Alistair took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring.

“I figured there was no helping the fact that you’re a heathen without the Andraste’s light in his heart, but we could make up for it… _by getting the Ashes to Eamon!_ ”

Tavaris’ eyes widened and for a moment Zevran was sure that he was going to strangle Alistair. There was this tension in his posture, muscles already coiled to attack…

…but after a few seconds Tavaris relaxed, his face turning into a disturbingly serene mask.

_“Nuva fen’harel pala masa sule’din,”_ he said, very quietly, turned on his heel and left.

After a few heartbeats of stunned silence, Zevran grabbed his weapons.

“Talk some sense into that oaf,” he hissed to Leliana before following Tavaris down the road. He couldn’t leave his Warden alone like that, especially when he didn’t even bother to get his bow. Not when Zevran had just decided that he wanted him to live.

They didn’t have to talk.

“Zevran?” Tavaris asked quietly when they were safely out of the earshot.

Or they could.

“Yes, _querido_?” He answered warily, not sure what to make of his tone.

There was a brief, rather uncomfortable pause and then Tavaris flung himself at the surprised Crow, with his arms wrapped around his waist and his face buried in his shoulder. It took Zevran a few moments to overcome his own stiffness caused by the unexpected contact before he noticed that Tav was tense to a point of shaking. He wrapped one arm around him and slid the second hand under his chin.

“Tavaris?” He tried once again and leaned away slightly, gently forcing Tav’s head up to gauge his mood.  The grey eyes were blown with anger and the archer’s hands were clutched desperately on Zevran’s sides. The assassin was sure he was going to have bruises despite his leathers. “Talk to me, _bello_. What do you need?”

“I was this close to ripping his throat, Zevran,” he answered, his jaw still clenched. “If I had any weapon on me, _vhenan_ , anything at all, I would kill that cursed _shem_.”

“Would you?” Zevran asked curiously before he managed to stop himself. The completely inappropriate thrill he felt at the low, almost growling tone of his Warden’s voice didn’t help. He didn’t doubt Tav’s skills, of course, he saw him kill. But it was one thing to put an arrow in a bandit on a trail, something completely different to sink your blade in a person you shared shelter and food for months.

“Why else would I run away without getting my bow, Zevran?” Tavaris asked flatly, looking Zevran straight in the eye. And yes, there was that rage, that resolve and in that moment the Antivan fully believed his words. It was exciting, it was fascinating and it completely turned upside-down the gentle, peace-keeping image of the tiny Warden Zevran had constructed in his head. And for some reason he was really glad for this misassessment.

“Aren’t you a savage…?” He breathed out in awe, tracing the strained jaw with his thumb.

Tavaris jerked in his embrace, eyes clouding with a new rage.

“I am not…” He paused, taking in Zevran’s expression. “You mean it as a compliment, don’t you?” He asked, obviously flabbergasted.

“I told you I fancy dangerous men, dear,” Zevran smiled, flashing his teeth at Tavaris. “And I won’t lie, that look in your eyes does wicked things to me.”

The anger in Tavaris’ eyes slowly evaporated, replaced by an incredulous expression.

“Are you telling me you’re getting horny because I told you I’d like to kill one of our travelling companions?” He asked, deep disbelief colouring his voice.

Zevran moved his thumb higher, to caress the Warden’s lower lip.

“Oh, no, _hermoso_ , not at all. People say many things and usually you’re a fool if you take them seriously,” he grinned. “What makes me want to ravish you right here and now is the fact that you make me believe it.”

Tavaris relaxed in his arms, softened noticeably… and after a moment of stunned silence, he snickered.

“You’re incorrigible, _vhenan_. Truly incorrigible. But I guess that’s what makes it work,” he smiled, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Thank you for not judging me.”

“Why would I judge you?” Zevran asked, leaning down to nip at the shell of his lover’s ear. “Do you forget who I am? People die, sometimes we help them and usually they deserve it anyway, one way or another. Besides, you walked away instead of acting on this desire — so what is even to judge here? Not that I ever would.”

There was relief in Tav’s expression now, so palpable that Zevran felt like he could taste it.

“ _Serannas, arasha_.” He smiled, a bit bashfully. “ _Ar lath ma_.”

“As charming as it sounds, you are aware that I cannot understand a word you say, no?”

The grin Tavaris offered in answer was enticing, cheerful and totally shit-eating.

“I know.”

 

They stayed away from the camp for a while, joking and laughing, until Tavaris decided that he calmed down enough to face Alistair again without giving into murderous instincts.

“Do you want to tell me what made you so furious, _hermoso_?” Zevran asked as they were turning around to return. Tavaris closed his eyes and huffed.

“ _Shem_ being a blighted _shem_ ,” he answered sourly. “I am sorry, but if I go into details now, I’m going to get angry again and all your hard work will be for nothing.” He forced a smile, but his eyes had already dulled. Zevran cursed himself silently for ever asking.

“If you wish me to, I could just get rid of the problem for you,” he offered. “It would probably cause some problems and could be a source of some bad blood, but if you wish…” He hesitated, then smirked. “And my offer to whisk you away still stands. There are better places to be than this awful country.”

“Let’s revisit that idea once I actually can leave.” He leaned into Zevran, brushing his lips against his cheek. “For now I need to deal with the issue at hand…” He winced. “And in the way _mamae_ would deem appropriate, I’m afraid.” He scrunched his nose and started in a comically high pitched voice. “Be wise, _da’assan_ , be a bigger man, you shouldn’t have broken Junar’s nose, don’t shoot every _shem_ on sight, _ma’vherain_ , send them back home first.”

Zevran chuckled, wrapping his arm around Tav’s hips.

“It feels absolutely scandalous to hear you speaking of your family in such an irreverent way, _mi bello_ ,” he observed lightly. “Troublesome child, though? I have problem imagining.”

Tav snickered quietly.

“ _Mamae_ used to say that if I am in trouble, then it means that the sun must’ve risen. She told me that I have the Dread Wolf under my skin and I need to be wary of his whispers.” He sighed deeply, his good mood suddenly gone. “Maybe I wasn’t wary enough.”

“Ah, ah, ah, ah! Hush!” Zevran squeezed the hip under his hand. “Don’t do this to yourself, _precioso mio._ There are things that happen in our lives we have absolutely no power to stop. I couldn’t do anything about being sold as a child, you couldn’t do anything about the Blight turning your life upside down. Blaming yourself for it is foolish, dangerous and about as attractive as a running nose.”

Tavaris looked up at him, slightly startled.

“You don’t have… If you don’t want me…” He started, tripping over his words awkwardly. Zevran chuckled quietly.

“Hush, I don’t want to hear any more of this. Come, show me how you talk big, angry humans down. I find it utterly captivating.”

Tavaris flushed slightly, but let Zevran drag him back into the camp. The assassin looked at the sky. It was difficult to tell time with sun hiding under heavy rain clouds, but it still seemed reasonably early. As they neared the campsite Tavaris lost his pretty smiles and squared his shoulders, but that was unavoidable. If they were to move today at all, the problem had to be solved and one couldn’t expect it to be a pleasant conversation.

The Warden disentangled himself from Zevran’s embrace and went straight to Alistair, who was sitting on his own, rolled tent and poking the ground with a stick absently. Leliana was standing nearby with a tightened mouth, and Morrigan and Sten observed the scene from safe distance — the witch slightly amused and the Qunari unreadable as usual.

Tavaris approached Alistair, braced himself, and as soon as the human looked up, socked him straight in the jaw in the impressively executed left hook. Zevran’s own jaw throbbed in sympathy at the sight. Alistair, taken by surprise, fell down from the packs, clutching his face and spitting blood.

“What the…” He started, looking at his fellow Warden with a mixture of shock and anger. Tavaris didn’t let him finish, instead grabbing the collar of his gambeson where it stuck out from under the armour and hauled the templar to his eye level.

“You will never speak again this way of me or mine,” he said lowly, looking Alistair straight in the eye. “And that includes Zevran as well as my people, if you have any doubts. I’ve had enough putting up with that casual disdain from every _shem_ around, so if you aren’t sure if what you want to say is offensive or not, you better shut your trap. Next time I won’t be so nice.”

Leliana took a deep breath.

“Tavaris, you can’t just…” Zevran caught her eye and shook his head slightly. Tavaris probably _was_ overreacting a bit, but telling him that wasn’t going to help, on the contrary — might as well make him even angrier. The elven Warden let go of Alistair and turned to her with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“I can’t what?”

Fortunately, the bard took a hint. She closed her mouth and shook her head with a murmured ‘nothing’. Tavaris relaxed a bit.

“Alright, we’re going to search for that _Haven,”_ he said, the last word morphing almost into a snarl. “We’ve spend much longer than intended with the Tavella, so fine, have it your way. We’ll go on a fairytale chase if you insist. But,” he paused, looking pointedly at Alistair. “We can’t really afford to waste time. So, three weeks. If after three weeks we won’t get the Ashes, or at least a solid lead, we’re dropping it and getting back to more serious tasks.”

The templar spat another mouthful of blood, before standing up. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to look for retaliation.

“Three weeks?” He protested instead. “The knights were looking for months!”

“We don’t have these months, _shem,_ ” Tavaris shrugged, looking at his knuckles. They seemed to start bruising after the punch. “Of course, you’re welcome to make your own way and search as long as you wish. But I won’t stay there any longer than that.”

 

The atmosphere in their little party soured after that. Alistair avoided Tavaris as much as he could, talking to him only when it was really necessary. Leliana was torn between consoling the templar and mostly failed attempts to make Tavaris more amiable again. Zevran himself was rather content. Tav was snapping at the humans often, with a noteworthy exemption of Morrigan, but for the assassin he was even sweeter than usual. He sought his company every possible moment, showering him with affection, and while this kind of attention was something completely new for Zevran, he discovered — much to his surprise — that he actually really enjoyed the turn their weird relationship took.

Otherwise, the journey was relatively uneventful, save from a few skirmishes with Darkspawn and frequent, loud arguments between Alistair and Tavaris. It seemed that the Wardens clashed every time they tried to exchange more than a few sentences. It was growing tiresome.

“We don’t even know where exactly that cursed village is," argued the elf for the millionth time, while Alistair repeated: “You promised we’d go straight there."

Zevran yawned quietly, sliding from his saddle and stretching lazily. He got used to it after all that time, but his legs still liked to cramp if they rode too long.

“They are almost as bad as you two when you’re making love," Leliana noticed, taking Zevran’s lead and sitting down on a nearby rock.

“I wouldn’t compare these two situations. At least when we’re having sex, Tavaris sounds really delightful. Can’t say this about that.” He inclined his head towards the arguing Grey Wardens. He was starting to feel a beginning of a headache.

“That’s a matter of perspective, I guess," said the bard with a slight smile. “Believe me when I say that you two are rather annoying.”

“Jealous?” Zevran smirked. Much to his amusement, Leliana blushed, hiding her face behind her hair.

“I… I’m not," she stuttered. Zevran chuckled.

“Oh, dear, there’s no need to be so bashful. As much as it pains me to let him go even for a night, I might suggest to him that his affections are needed elsewhere," the assassin smiled slyly. “Or, maybe, you’d prefer my company? Both of us even?”

Leliana looked positively indignant.

“Really? You would cheat on him? Just like that?”

It was Zevran’s turn to scoff.

“Cheat? I’m not a cheat! But I doubt he would begrudge me finding pleasures elsewhere…  It’s an agreement of convenience,  after all, don’t confuse it with any foolish, romantic affair.”

“Is that so?” The expression on Leliana’s face was hard to read. “Seeing how frantic you were when he was ill, I’d say it looked pretty romantic. And these little touches you share, the smiles and soft looks…”

“It is not.” Zevran bristled slightly. It wasn’t her business in any way, the relationship between him and Tavaris, but even suggestion of it being more than it was irked him for no good reason.  Leliana hummed thoughtfully.

“If I were you, I would check if he agrees with you. Just to stay on the safe side.”  

Was there a threat in her voice? Zevran didn’t have much time to ponder that as the Wardens returned. Alistair with a satisfied expression, Tav looking rather gloomy.

“Further into the mountains, I take it?” The assassin asked. The hunter nodded.

“Yes, apparently someone needs to see with his own eyes that nobody lives there.  It’s too cold and nothing grows on these rocks! People would have to be mad to move into this part of mountains! ”

“We know the village is in the high mountains and that there’s some temple build there. We could look for the temple. Temples are usually big and visible.”

“Do you even hear yourself? It’s mountains! How do you want to look for a building in mountains? Let me give you a hint: in the mountains the mountains obstruct the view!”  Tavaris almost groaned. “I regret I ever agreed to waste the time on this.”

“It’s not a waste of time!” Alistair protested passionately. “We need the Urn!”

“ _Vyn esaya gera assan i’mar’av’ingala_ ,” Tavaris scoffed quietly. Zevran didn’t have to know the language to fully understand it was an insult.  “Assuming that the myth is even true — which I personally don’t believe — and assuming we won’t end up like Eamon’s knights, it might as well take years before we find that village alone, not to mention the Urn. I’m pretty sure that if we even find it — and that’s _a lot_ of assuming — Eamon will be long dead by then.”

“We’ll get back in time," Alistair said with conviction. Zevran just shook his head at the naivety of the human. Regardless of his fondness towards the elven Warden, he simply sounded much more rational in this argument than Alistair did. And, personally, Zevran would be much happier to get down into the flatlands. The weather was awful up here. He dreaded staying here long enough to meet Tavaris’ deadline.   

 

Everything seemed to point that the young Dalish was right. It’s been two weeks already and they were still searching for the village, without any success. The map they had from the journals was very rough, not much more than a hint of an area to search. What was even worse, the deeper into the mountains they went, the colder the nights were. Now it wasn’t only Zevran who was freezing, but Tavaris too. But then, probably it shouldn’t be surprising: the boy didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Tavaris didn’t sprawl across the furs while sleeping anymore, instead curling into a tiny ball at Zevran’s side. Looking at his shivering lover, the assassin was tempted to simply kill Alistair one night and save them all the suffering.

Last night was particularly cold and all of them felt rather miserable in the morning.

“Three days," announced Tavaris over his breakfast. “If we don’t find Haven in three days, we’re turning back to Kinloch Hold and then to Orzammar.”

Alistair didn’t even protest.

“Orzammar is closer," noticed Morrigan.

“I hope to recruit a healer in the Circle," answered Tavaris. “We could use one. And, besides, I don’t relish the thought of staying underground," he admitted. “When I think about the amount of stone above the city…” He shuddered slightly.

“We’ll have to get there eventually," observed Zevran, despite the fact that he shared the sentiment.

“I don’t want to go from freezing to being closed in a death trap. I need a break.”

“A break to see the most pathetic cowards I’ve ever heard of," commented Morrigan sourly. “And you want one of them to go with us. Maybe a templar on top of that? You certainly lack some more pitiful fools in our little group.”

Tavaris smiled softly.

“No, Morrigan, no templars. I don’t want a crazied lyrium addict with us.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I’m reaching my limits of brainwashed fools I can suffer.”

They didn’t waste much more time and swiftly packed the camp after that. Their route went higher and higher, and there was no chance to do wide sweeps as they had done at the beginning of their march. Even worse, snow was becoming a problem.

“No chance we’ll find this Haven," sighed Zevran, looking at the narrow path before them. It was innocently covered in snow and he wondered how much time it will take before someone missteps and falls into the chasm to the left. Tavaris nodded with a bitter expression. 

“And on these paths, if it doesn’t stop snowing, we’ll have to either leave the horses or go back. And we’re not leaving the horses.”

“I don’t feel very confident about our chances, even without the horses,” Morrigan chimed in.

Alistair turned around.

“You’ve promised three days, Tavaris," he protested. The elf scowled, exhaustion drawing deep lines under his eyes.

“I’m giving you as much time as possible, especially given how foolish this endeavour is. But if it comes to keeping my word or saving our lives… I’m sorry, but the choice is obvious.” He scowled at the snowed trees around them. “Actually, I’m not sure if moving any further would be a wise decision. We should probably…”

“Wait," interrupted Leliana. “There’s a trail!”

Everyone turned their heads to see what the bard pointed at. Indeed, there was a trail slightly below them, and it looked less like an animal path and more like a genuine road, wide enough for a cart. It was a first sign of any settlements since they had entered the mountains.

“I guess we’ll see where it leads," sighed Tavaris with resignation. “We’re going to have to go around, I’m afraid.”

They turned their horses back, searching for a safe way to get to the mysterious road and soon found themselves at the end of it. The clearing they stopped at was obviously a lumbersite, with chopped trunks and tree stubs. It was deserted at the moment, however, and Tavaris rubbed his forehead in a weary gesture. The tips of his fingers visible under his gloves were frighteningly red.

“It seems that we have to go the other way around," he said, looking at the hacked wood with something resembling hatred. There was no denying that there must’ve been a settlement nearby.

“So we’ve found Haven,” Alistair announced with satisfaction. Tavaris scoffed lowly.

“All we’ve found is a clearing with chopped trees. It might belong to Haven, or it might be some other village that has nothing to do with our mission.”

“As far as we know there are no other settlements in the area,” Alistair said, puffing out his chest as if few felled trees proved he was right all along.

“We didn’t know about Haven either, not until we found the journal," murmured Zevran quietly, but the human Warden ignored him, looking at Tavaris triumphantly.

The young elf pursed his lips.

“Even if it’s not Haven they probably know where to find it," he admitted reluctantly. “But still, even if we find the village, it doesn’t mean that there’s anything there.”

“Brother Genetivi seemed to be sure that there will be at least some clue," answered Alistair.

“And brother Genetivi might as well be a deluded old man. That still doesn’t mean anything.” Tavaris turned his horse. “Let’s go. Even if we won’t find the Sacred Ashes, there’s a chance that we’ll at least get to sleep under a roof tonight. I might be more inclined to search for some burned corpse once I get a good night’s sleep.”

“The proud Dalish dreams of a roof?” Zevran teased playfully. “I was sure that you love sleeping under the open sky.”

Tavaris regarded him with sour expression.

“ _Aravellas_  have roofs, you know. And it’s cold. I’m Dalish, not crazy.”

The assassin chuckled quietly.

“Point taken.”

 

 


	12. Red Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, guys, sorry for the terrible delay. I had a really awful time since the last chapter (or, in fact even longer, but June and July were just... just... I don't have words, alright?). My living situation is currently disastrous for both my mental health and writing, but thankfully, I've got a new job that isn't awful and pays well enough that I should be able to get some kind of normalcy again within a month of two. 
> 
> This chapter was hella difficult too, since it swiveled faaar from the previous version and I had a very hard decision to make that... kinda forces me to rethink everything from this moment forward. It didn't help with the writing time. 
> 
> I must warn you - it is completely unproofed. I apologize for any typos, grammar mistakes and stuff like that - I couldn't find time and energy to pour over the technicalities of the text as I usually do and yet I wanted to finally give you the content. Hopefully, as my living situation starts to gradually stabilize, my writing energy will come back and the quality drops and breaks between updates won't be so jarring. 
> 
> Thanks for putting up with me :)

They went up the road and soon the forest dwindled, giving way to an open area. The houses piled up the slopes there, and on top of the visible space they saw a huge building that looked distinctly like a Chantry. A rather old one at that.

The village was eerie. An oppressive silence hung over the settlement, heavy like an unspoken accusation. A thick, pristine layer of snow covered everything, stifling sounds and making the whole hamlet feel strangely artificial, as if some gargantuan entity arranged the houses for an unknown reason, just like a child could arrange their toys — forgetting, however, about the little details that would make the place feel lived-in. 

The place wasn’t abandoned though — there was proof enough in even paths beaten into the fresh snow, leading from each of the houses to what seemed to be the main village road. This little proof of life didn’t change the fact that the area seemed dead. There was no signs of usual everyday chaos that marked spaces where people lived. No footprints straying from the even lanes, no handprints on snowed porches. There was no trace of kids waging a snowball war, or a snowman in the backyard, or any other game children would usually amuse themselves with. Nothing. And not a single soul in sight. 

“Huh, this looks weird,” Leliana remarked, looking around. Zevran was inclined to agree. The otherworldly emptiness of the village made him shudder — and he wasn’t a person who’d spook easily. 

“Well, there surely must be someone aro…” Tavaris started to say when from behind the houses, stepping carefully into prepared paths, emerged a man. He was clad in a full chainmail, bearing an axe at his hip, but his mismatched armour clearly indicated he was no soldier. Even so, his equipment was still well cared-for. Not something that one could expect to be collected in a rush by a simple farmer who owned his grandfather’s helmet and aunt’s jagged sword.

Zevran almost frowned, barely keeping the expression off his face. Instead, he leaned slightly into Tavaris, pretending that he’d slipped on the snow. 

“Bandits or militia,” he whispered against his ear, barely moving his lips. “Either way — fishy.” He was quiet, very quiet, but so close Tav should be able to hear him well enough. Zevran hoped that the minuscule tensing of the ranger’s shoulder was a sign of just that. 

“Who are you and what are you doing in Haven? There’s nothing for you here," the armoured man said with open hostility. The Wardens exchanged brief looks.

“I’m Tavaris Mahariel Sabrae of the Grey Wardens," the elf introduced himself as if nothing were amiss. “We came here for business.”

Meanwhile, Zevran observed the stranger carefully. Tav’s answer made him frown and shift his weight in a way that betrayed, if not a seasoned fighter, then at least a person who spent a significant amount of time training for battle.

“You did not. I would know if someone was expecting guests. Turn back.” 

Not a bandit then, Zevran decided, or a very good liar — which he doubted to be true. Still, the very presence of the guard made the assassin wary. Villages didn’t keep full time guards around — it was simply too expensive to have warriors lazing around in a settlement like that. Not without a very good reason, at least, and Zevran had trouble believing that a hamlet in the middle of nowhere had enough troubles with the bandits to justify it. There was also the matter of the Blight. But if that was the problem farmers prepared for, the man would surely be happier to hear about the Grey Wardens’ arrival.

“We came here in search of Brother Genitivi," Tavaris said as if the guard hadn’t just told them off. Zevran was slowly starting to admire that particular ability of his to ignore whatever people told him. “Is he here?”

“Who?” The guard’s frown deepened even more. Zevran was wondering if that little twitch of the brow was meaningful or just an accident. He noticed that Leliana’s expression turned thoughtful too. They should have a little chat once they were out of earshot. “Perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of whom you speak, elf.” 

Tav’s ears twitched slightly. The first sign of a bad temper. 

“Revered Father?” The surprised bard asked, losing her focus. “What about a Mother?”

“It has always been a Father in Haven. We don’t question tradition," the guard answered in a sharp tone, then turned to Alistair. Of course, a big, blond human man was the person to talk to, even if he stood to the side and hadn’t spoken a word yet. Zevran was sure Tavaris was livid already. 

“If you really need to, talk to the Revered Father. But you’ll have to wait, he is ministrating the village at the moment and cannot be disturbed. You can refill your supplies at the shop, though. Don’t overstay your welcome.”

The guard turned away and disappeared behind the houses, leaving the party to their own devices. Zevran’s nerves were tingling with the wrongness of the whole situation. 

“They are hiding something," observed Morrigan, looking after the man.

‘Well, you know closed insular communities. There’s always something nasty going on behind closed door," Zevran quipped in response, trying to diffuse the tension coiling in his muscles. “I hope it involves chains. I hope I’ll be asked to join in.”

Ugh. That was awkward. And earned him an odd look from Mahariel and several other people. That place must had really gotten on his nerves if he was babbling so badly. 

“The shop sounds good, though," Leliana said lightly, drawing the attention away from the assassin. Given that said attention was on him only because of an uncouth blunder the distraction was rather welcome. “We have almost run out of vegetables and the feed for the horses.”

There was a brief pause before Tavaris nodded curtly. 

“Sure, why not,” he said. “I would also like to visit the villagers and ask for shelter for a night. I doubt they would have beds read for us, but maybe someone won’t mind us crashing in their barn or something.”

“A good idea,” Alistar agreed, rather enthusiastically, making Mahariel’s ears twitch irritably again. Even if things were mostly back to normal, ever since their argument Tavaris reacted badly to Alistair even in most innocuous situations. “I wouldn’t mind having a warmer place to sleep.”

“A fine idea indeed,” Morrinan parroted in a bitter tone. “Nothing better than sleeping in goat stench.” 

“Feel free to stay outside, Morrigan. Nobody is going to force a comfortable night on you if you’re opposed to the idea so much,” Tavaris answered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as his ears twitched again. There was a tired look in his eyes as he looked up at Zevran. “Let’s check these houses. Surely not everyone is at the sermon.” 

The young elf went to the closest house and knocked; the door opened slightly under his hand. He bit his lip, glancing at Zevran questioningly. The assassin shrugged. The door was open, after all, and in Zevran’s books that meant that whoever lived there didn’t mind people snooping around. And if they did mind it was their own fault for leaving the door open. Though, to be honest, his train of thoughts would be probably exactly the same if they had anything weaker than magically strengthened triple orlesian lock. 

The Warden pushed the door fully open and entered, calling softly, “Hello? Anybody home?”

Suddenly, he stiffened, looking at something inside. His face went unnaturally blank. By now Zevran was familiar enough with Tavaris’ expressions to recognize what that meant. The Dalish just saw something that didn’t exactly fit his knowledge of humans and their customs and was trying to hide the panic that came from that confusion. 

“Oh," was the only thing he said out loud, frozen in place.

“What is it, querido?” Zevran asked, slightly alarmed and hurried to his lover’s side to assess the damage. As soon as he entered, a terrible stench hit him. It was so out of the place in the otherwise normal interior, it took him a few seconds to recognize it. Blood, a few days old judging by the sweet odour of decay. The metallic tang was already drowning under the more pungent stink of rot. It was a rather disgusting experience, and even worse, it triggered some really unpleasant memories of the early days of his training. He pushed them away and looked around, trying to find the source. 

The room was exactly what one would expect in a farmer’s house in the middle of nowhere. A big furnace that probably doubled as a sleeping place for the family; a table with narrow benches. A bloodied altar by the wall, some festive decorations hanged under the ceiling. Chests and cabinets for storage.

Zevran did a double take, focusing again on the altar. That was absolutely out of the place here, and, without any doubt, the source of the impossible reek. Tavaris looked up at him helplessly. Judging by his expression he was trying to decide whether smelly, bloody altars were common fixtures in human dwellings or not. Given his background, he was probably inclined to believe they were. The assassin slightly squeezed the younger man’s arm.

“That’s rather uncommon decor, I must admit,” he said lightly, answering the unspoken question. “Well, I guess that living in such a dreadful place one could develop questionable tastes.”

Tavaris leaned into his touch, eyes darting briefly to his face, then back to the dark splotches of blood staining the stone block, wall and the floor around it. 

Morrigan, who entered just after them, gave the altar a thoughtful look.

“That is human blood," she informed them evenly. At Tavaris’ shocked expression she shrugged. “I just know. I also know that nobody can lose so much blood and live.”

Tavaris cringed slightly. The heavy steps behind them marked the entrance of Alistair — and probably the rest of the group. The templar gagged loudly.

“Maker’s breath! How can anyone function in this stench?” He asked, pressing a handkerchief to his face. Zevran never took him for a type who’d have a handkerchief handy, but then Alistair sometimes did surprise. 

“Well, we could think outside, but instead of focusing on the smell we could focus on the purpose, yes?” He suggested, putting his hands on Tavaris’ arms and steering him outside past the crowded entrance. “Nobody makes human sacrifices without a reason.” 

“What reason would be good enough to kill a person?” Alistair asked, outraged. 

“Oh, you would be surprised, my dear Alistair,” Zevran answered, massaging discreet circles into Tavaris’ arms. The young man was either in shock or deep in thought. “Besides, I didn’t say that the reason had to be good, I just said it has to exist. Nobody gets out of the bed in the morning and decides ‘oh, I’m going to make some blood sacrifices today, just for the kicks of it’.” He paused, reconsidering. “Or, well, maybe someone does, but in that case they’re mad as an old Templar and that’s a whole reason of it’s own.” He was somehow proud of himself that he didn’t go for the low hanging bait and didn’t ask Alistair about his feelings about the bandits they encountered on the road about a week or two before. But it was different and even the assassin with his training recognized the fact. 

“Why old Templar?” Tavaris asked absently, distracted again by a minor issue.

“It’s just a saying, querido,” he explained. Alistair answered at the same time, “some Templars go mad with the age, from the lyrium.” 

Tavaris made a small ‘ah’ sound and fell silent again, biting his lip and frowning with the effort of thinking. 

“So… Should we find that guard and tell him about that blood, perhaps?” He asked after a few seconds. “He seemed to be… the right person to inform, didn’t he? And this was messy and stinky and it seemed too filthy even for humans to bear. Though I might be generous in these assumptions…” He fixed Alistair with a disgusted look that said clearly that the elf knew perfectly well what state Alistair’s socks were in and that he had an opinion about that. 

Leliana bristled. 

“Tavaris! You can’t say things like that! It’s deeply offensive to assume every human is Alistair.” 

Alistair looked at her flatly. 

“What have I done now?” 

“You stink,” Tavaris answered emphatically and turned to Leliana with an ugly sneer. “And yeah, it might be offensive. You surely are an expert on offensive, miss ‘elves make great servants’.” 

“That was a compliment!” She crossed her arms defensively on her chest trying to stare the small elf down. Tavaris just tossed his hands over his head in an exaggerated exasperation. 

“Did you hear that, Zev? A compliment! ‘Elves make great servants’ is a blighted compliment now!” 

Zevran cleared his throat warily. 

“I absolutely understand your point, querido, but do you think it’s the right time to discuss that? Maybe we can get back to it later, when we’re in the camp, no? I think I should remind you that we just found traces of a human body and a blood magic ritual.” 

Tavaris scoffed loudly.

“Who cares? It was only a shem. Big deal. There are already much too many arrogant shemlen around.” 

Zevran sighed, giving Tavaris a long, tormented look.

“Querido, dear… You surely can’t be meaning that,” he said slowly, trying to calm the disastrous argument down a bit. Personally, he couldn’t care less about Tav’s opinions on humans and the value of their lives. He himself was pretty indifferent to racial disputes and grew up believing that every life’s worth is measurable in gold. Still, he recognized a social suicide when he saw one, and the fact was that they couldn’t afford alienating their allies like that. “I know you are upset, but..” 

“Now you, Zevran?” Tav hissed. “I’ll let you know…” 

“Enough!” Sten’s voice boomed over them, cutting the argument short. “I’m assuming the leadership of this group now.”

The archer turned to the qunari with a disbelieving look on his face. 

“What?” He just asked, voice devoid of any emotion.

“You spend your time and passion on a pointless bickering, elf, instead of the war that you should be fighting. You are no leader.” 

Tavaris narrowed his eyes, staring at the huge qunari with clear defiance. The sight should be pretty absurd, since the elf barely reached above the qunari’s elbow, but Tav somehow made it work. 

“I am your leader and you will fall in line,” he said very calmly. “I would send you away if you dislike my leadership style so much, but I promised I will keep an eye on you.” 

“A promise of a basra is worth less than a handful of sand on a desert. If you want to lead, prove you’re not one. Defend yourself!”

There wasn’t any further warning, before the qunari charged Tavaris, drawing his enormous sword as he run. 

There was a clear disparity between Tav's face and the movement of his body. The former frozen in disbelief and betrayal, the latter governed by quick reflexes and deeply ingrained instinct. He pulled his bow from its sling with one hand, another already drawing an arrow… Just to realize, a second too late, that the bow was still unstrung. He tossed the useless weapon to Zevran, drawing one of his long daggers with his free hand and fixing his grip on the arrow to one more suitable for jabbing. Dancing away from the wide slash of the gigantic blade he looked small and terrifyingly vulnerable, which did unpleasant things to Zevran’s innards. 

His attention went back to the bow in his hand, the string bundled neatly at its upper limb to prevent tangling. There was some trick to the knot, the assassin knew that, seeing more than once how Tav unwrapped it in one swift move to have the weapon ready in matter of seconds. Unfortunately, Zevran didn’t know what the secret was, so he fumbled with the cord awkwardly, knotting it before he managed to pull it lose. 

In the meantime, Tavaris was frantically jumping around Sten, trying to avoid the heavy sword. He succeeded so far, but it was obvious that one good hit would incapacitate him easily. The elf avoided that so far, but his luck could run out any moment now. 

Zevran focused on the bow again, intent to provide Tavaris with a weapon before that happened. His fingers were uncharacteristically stiff when he tugged at the string, trying to catch the tiny loop at its end on the recess carved in the wood. It had a name, this tiny hollow and Zevran was sure he knew it. He didn’t know however, why did he get so fixated on the word, when all he needed to do was to hook the string there, while it slipped from his fingers. 

It took two, three tries, before the loop finally caught the uneven wood, string pulling taut as intended. As if called by the powerful relief emanating from Zevran, Tavaris glanced his way with an unspoken urgency in his eyes. The assassin nodded curtly and straightened, finally tossing the bow back to Tavaris. The young Dalish dropped his sword to the ground, reaching instead for his preferred weapon.

Zevran observed the scene with some kind of terryfing clarity. Tavaris seemed to move in sync with the rhythm of the assassin’s heartbeat and that heartbeat felt impossibly slow. Some more aware part of the Antivan’s mind realized, of course, that the reality was quite opposite, but that didn’t stop the surreal experience. 

Tavaris had to jump a bit to grab his precious weapon and just as his fingers closed over the smooth wood, Sten’s heavy blade started it’s descent straight at Tav’s stretched form. As the hunter noticed that, his muscles coiled and contracted and then Tav was rolling away from the deadly sword. 

He was jumping back on his feet immediately, using the moment of relief when Sten lost his balance when his weapon missed its mark. An arrow was nocked and aimed and suddenly time snapped back to its normal pace and Sten was reeling back, feathery shaft protruding from the gap in his shoulder armor. Tavaris didn’t waste time, already fishing another arrow from his quiver — with characteristic, stripped fletching. This one flew lower, hitting Sten’s leg and somehow piercing the plate on his shin as if it was parchment. 

The giant stumbled, falling to his knees in front of Tavaris. The arrow lodged in his shin shifted with the movement, but the qunari didn’t even wince. Zevran’s respect for the qunari grew a little. He himself was able to withstand this kind of pain with a mockery and grins, but he wasn’t sure if he could keep such a blank expression. That required a will of steel. 

“Give me one reason, just one reason why I shouldn’t kill you now,” Tavaris hissed through his clenched teeth, seething, as he aimed another arrow at Sten’s head. “Just one blighted reason.” 

Sten looked at him calmly. With their height difference, even kneeling, the Qunari didn’t have to crane his neck too much. 

“I have no such reason. If I strayed from my purpose there’s no reason for me to live.” 

“Oh, you most definitely did,” Tavaris hissed, relaxing his hold on the tense bowstring. There was something wrong about that, Zevran realized belatedly. There was eerie calmness on the qunari’s face, some kind of being fully in agreement with the world and his upcoming death. This wasn’t a face of a overpowered traitor, but one of willful submission.

There was no way to stop the flying arrow.

  


  


  



	13. Deeds and consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys!  
> Sorry for being so late with this chapter and for not answering the comments - I have read every single one of them and I appreciate them all, but life's been a bit crazy and I wanted to focus on writing instead of comments when I had fic-time to spare. Thank you for the love and bearing with me! 
> 
> As there were doubts about Zev's age: _I know_ that his age is known now and that he's canonically younger than in this fic. Tag "Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence" is here for a reason - the first time I started working on this story was before the first "World of Thedas" book was published, and the age difference here has some impact on the characters, so I didn't rush to change it when the information was released. 
> 
> Till the next time! Enjoy!

There was a loud thud of a body falling down in the deep snow and the oppressive silence followed when only Tavaris’ heavy breathing could be heard. Leliana and Alistair watched the scene with twin expressions of horror and astonishment. Zevran felt his own brow raising. Tavaris didn’t strike him as a particularly cruel or ruthless man, so seeing him killing a companion in a cold blood like that was rather eye-opening.

Tavaris looked at the blood pooling from the body with an expression that somehow mixed grim determination and sheer terror. His eyes flickered between his own hands, still holding the bow and the arrow protruding from Sten’s eye socket.

Maybe not so eye-opening. The boy seemed just a hair away from puking his guts out as the realization of his own deed dawned on him slowly. He didn’t have any hang-ups about killing in battle, but this kind of callous execution was apparently the line that he hadn’t crossed before. The assassin himself didn’t have any hard feelings — Sten was a wild card, proving just now that he couldn’t be trusted, even if his last words suggested that his death could have been a result of some cultural misunderstanding Zevran didn’t really want to analyze. 

Still, it wasn’t an incident Zevran was willing to ignore. Even if the Dalish looked sick to his guts at what he had done, it seemed that there was a breaking point after which he was capable of vindictiveness he wouldn’t suspect in that sweet boy he learned to know. Well, it was something to keep in mind in case his loyalties shifted again. Not that he planned to change his allegiance now, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Surprisingly, Morrigan first broke the heavy silence.

“Ah, a pity. He was quite agreeable for someone who would like to see me muzzled and bound,” she said, her tone detached as usual. “Now, don’t we have some religious zealot to talk to and some supplies to buy

 “Burial. We should bury him,” Tavaris choked out, his face white as a sheet and his eyes still trained on the body. “How do Qunari bury their people?”

“Burial? _Now_ you’re worried about a burial?” Alistair finally got back his voice, turning an accusing stare at the elf. “You murdered a man in a cold blood and now you’re worried about rites?”

“He was a friend, Tavaris! He was weird, but he was a friend! You shared food and fire with him! Did you even know he liked cookies?” Leliana’s face was streaked with tears as she looked at Tav with a betrayed expression.

Mahariel turned an incredulous stare on her.

“How is it important whether I know he liked cookies, Leliana?” He asked, still visibly shaken but not willing to listen to the accusations patiently. “Is nobody going to address the fact he attacked me without any provocation? Or that I really couldn’t let him go free to murder another farming family in a fit of rage?”

“You didn’t have to kill him!” Leliana protested.

“And what was keeping him from turning on us again?” Tavaris grit his teeth. “The Blight is too serious of a threat for me to worry about potential traitor at my back.” Zevran wasn’t surprised to see Leliana’s eyes flicker towards him as if she wanted to ask why he had even been allowed to join them. She kept quiet. “Now, does anyone know any Qunari burial rites? I am not a barbarian, despite anything you might be thinking.”

“Oh, just toss him somewhere out of the way,” Morrigan interrupted, slightly annoyed with the discussion. “From what I know about the Qunari, a pigpen will suffice. Or a compost pile.”

Tavaris turned a horrified look at her.

“You can’t be suggesting _that_!” He protested. “That’s an absolutely ungodly idea!”

Morrigan scoffed.

“Oh, please, stop giving me that scared look, Tavaris. With those ears of yours you resemble a hare caught by a wolf right now. The Qunari are very utilitarian people and don’t care much for their dead. I am not even sure if they believe in any kind of afterlife,” she explained, much more patiently than her expression might had suggested. “If you want to do with the body what Sten would want you to do, just stop making a fuss over it. We didn’t came to this stinkhole to commence foolish religious debates.” She paused. “Not that the task at hand is any less foolish.”

Zevran touched Tavaris’ shoulder. It was featherlight, but enough to get him to turn his teary eyes on the assassin. The sight was rather striking, but in an unpleasant way — Zev still didn’t understand why and when he became so receptive to the boy’s moods, but it wasn’t really the time to dwell on it.

“I know it goes against your beliefs and principles, my dear, but you should listen to Morrigan now,” he said gently. “There is a job to do and a Blight to be stopped and it won’t do anyone any good if we’ll get stuck here debating the funerals and betrayals. Come, let’s move him out of the way. It’s freezing, we can figure out what to do with him when we are done here.”

The promise of… not fixing, but at least alleviating his guilt later, finally worked on Tav enough for him to nod stiffly and take the huge body under the armpits to start dragging it behind one of the houses.

It wasn’t a big surprise that Alistair didn’t help, looking at Tavaris with disdain — but while the archer was strong enough to pull the body by himself, it was quite a pitiful sight to watch the small man struggle with the sheer size of the dead Qunari. It took a few seconds of a thunderous internal battle before the softer side of Zevran won — or maybe not ‘softer’. He didn’t have ‘soft’ sides, except maybe his soft spot for fine leather, expensive alcohol and good sex. But here, staying on Tav’s good side was his main mission and the ticket to his survival. He sighed and hurried to help, grabbing Sten by his legs and giving Tavaris a crooked smile.

“You know I have better uses than carrying weights, no?”

Tavaris looked at him with astonishment and anger at first, then resignation, and finally he cracked a weak smile.

“Well, I can’t think of anyone better to hide bodies with, Zevran.”

“Ah, well, I admit I don’t have much practice in that part. Usually I prefer to leave the bodies in plain sight. They serve their purpose better that way, no?”

Tavaris shook his head slightly, futilely trying to hide his amusement.

“I’m not too good with people, but I don’t think they like me right now,” he said quietly. “Maybe I should cease the inappropriate comments.”

“Maybe.” Zevran agreed easily. “Or maybe you are a leader, burdened by a difficult decisions and you need to deal with that in any way you might find helpful.” He shrugged, fixing his grip on Sten’s legs as they started to slip from his hands. Andraste’s tits, the Qunari gave a whole new meaning to the expression ‘dead weight’.

“I don’t know why I'm still surprised when you drop these tiny shards of wisdom,” Tavaris smiled weakly, then glanced over Zevran’s shoulder at the group standing on the plaza, lowering his voice even more. “But I’m not sure they’d agree. Probably I should wait with that _dealing_ until there’s just the two of us.”

Zevran raised one brow.

“I like where it’s going, I admit. Though these don’t sound like words of a man overly worried about decorum.”

Tavaris cleared his throat, averting his gaze. A slight blush crept up his cheeks but it was hard to tell whether it was from the embarrassment or cold.

“That’s…” He started, then coughed awkwardly and started once again. “That’s not what I had in mind,” he explained in a strained voice. “Not exactly, at least. I just… like your company, you know. It’s just that.”

There was something charmingly awkward in Tav’s expression and the tilt of his head. Though, probably dumping the body of your late companion in the snow probably wasn’t the best possible time to admire the quirks of your partner in crime. On the other hand, in Zevran’s experience, there weren’t many activities as bonding as hiding a body together. That had to count, yes?

“Ah, of course, you like my company. I have trained hard and long to be a very amiable companion,” Zevran gave Tavaris a roguish smile. There was something to the hunter’s words, something that made the assassin slightly uneasy, but he suppressed that feeling, focusing on the job at hand. The situation was unusual enough to explain the weird feelings, but he couldn’t get distracted. “Here, I think this snow pile is big enough to leave him, no?”

Tavaris was already opening his mouth to answer to Zevran’s first remark but the mention of Sten’s body obviously threw him out of the track, as he again turned sombre, awkwardly clearing his throat. The assassin felt a small pang of relief over that. Recently, many of his interactions with Tavaris made him unsettled – this talk slowly drifted that way as well.

“Uhm. Yes. I guess,” the hunter said slowly as if he just remembered what they were doing — it seemed impossible, given the formidable weight of the body, but the young man looked lost. “I will trust your expertise on that matter

Zev almost answered that he was hardly an expert in the matters of snow, but he caught himself just in time. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to know what the jokes could lead to.

 

They heaved the corpse and threw it in the deep drift. It landed with a soft thud, toned down by the cushion of snow. Tavaris looked at it with a pained expression before his face smoothed into the determined mask Zevran had grown so used to during their travel.

“We need to move on,” he said, turning away from the snowdrift. The only thing betraying the strong emotions of last hour was a slight hoarseness of his voice. “Supplies, I think. And then we need to find that priest the guard spoke about. I’m quite eager to leave this cursed place behind.”

“Ah, with that I agree wholeheartedly. Preferably somewhere with less snow, no?”

Tavaris gave him a dark look. Apparently, this honest plea was taken for more joking and jokes were currently unappreciated. Zevran promptly closed his mouth.

They returned to the rest of the group in rather uneasy silence, that turned borderline hostile under the heavy glares of the humans. Tavaris grimaced.

“ _Fenedhis_ , just cut this shit now. You’re either going with me, or…” he closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly too fed up with the whole situation to care anymore. “Or I don’t give nugshit about that. I have a blighted job to do and I won’t have anyone getting in my way.”

Leliana seemed stunned — Zevran had to admit he was rather surprised as well. This… this wasn’t Tavaris he was used to. Sure, there were arguments and he had lost his temper a few times, but usually, he tried to talk their problems through, even if these attempts were a bit awkward. This “no discussion” attitude was something new — but the last hour was rather taxing and Tav was obviously exhausted even before they had found the village.

It was quite ironic that Sten would most probably approve at last.

Alistair bristled.

“You can’t just order us around like that,” he protested. Tavaris looked at him heavily.

“I _can_ and I _will_. I am done caring and explaining my every decision. You didn’t want the job, remember? So either shut up or leave. If I have to save the fucking world by myself, I will.”

Zevran sighted and shuffled closer to Tav with a neutral expression.

“You wanted to get supplies, no? And then to meet that revered father?” He smiled at the hunter, masterfully hiding his apprehension under the friendly face. “I would say we go before we find out that our boots have frozen to the ground.”

It took him an embarrassingly long moment to understand the softer look in Tav’s eyes — he was grateful and relieved, but over what? That was something Zevran couldn’t really comprehend. There wasn’t much time to contemplate that since Tavaris’ expression turned back into the stony mask as he inclined his head stiffly.

“Well, I’m actually willing to agree with the sycophant,” Morrigan said calmly. “We have wasted enough time as it is.”

Tavaris gave another small nod in her direction and turned on his heel, not even looking back at Alistar and Leliana. Zevran couldn’t help but feel a pang of satisfaction. It looked that Tavaris had picked his allies from their merry band – and being counted in that number was all Zevran could hope for and even more. In terms of being shielded from the Crows, of course. As long as he stayed on Mahariel’s good side he felt quite comfortable about his chances.

Something of that must have reflected on his face as Morrigan gave him a weird look before she hurried forward to match her pace with Tav. She obviously didn’t like to even look as if she was following anyone.

The crunch of the snow under heavy boots told the assassin that Alistair moved to follow as well, even if the delay suggested slight reluctance. Leliana’s steps were much lighter, much softer, but Zevran was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to be left alone there. Thushel caught up with Zevran, nudging his hand with his muzzle – even the dog was out of sorts in all of that.

They walked in silence, Tavaris with Morrigan in the front, Zevran just a few steps behind, Alistair and Leliana trailing after them, but keeping their distance.

The village was built on the slopes of the mountain, the yard where the fight took place on its lowest tier, connected to the rest of the settlement with a path so steep Zevran had trouble imagining how the locals managed to pull the carts up there. There were, however, deep wheel tracks, so apparently, they did. Somehow.

As they reached the higher tier, Zevran’s attention caught a crude, weathered sign, swinging in the wind with an unpleasant creak. It was hard to tell what the dull paint was supposed to represent, but in such a backward dump it could be only a store or an inn — or, most probably, a place doubling for both.

Tavaris apparently came to the same conclusion, heading towards the building. Before he entered, though, he turned to Zevran. His eyes betrayed exhaustion — though it was hard to tell if it was the physical or mental kind of tiredness — and his expression turned softer as he looked up at the assassin.

“Would you mind keeping watch while we check out the store, _ma’vhenan_?” He asked quietly. “I don’t trust the people around here.”

“We haven’t seen much of them so far,” the Crow answered lightly, not particularly inclined to stay in the cold while the rest would hide in the warm — or at least, warmer — building.

“Exactly.” Tavaris sighed, rubbed the bridge of his red nose and looked up again — this time his expression turned pleading. “Please, Zev. I… I don’t think I trust anyone now.” _But you_ , was left unspoken, but still, the message was very clear. You couldn’t really refuse a request like that.

“Well, I doubt I would find anything of interest in there, anyway,” he said as if those were his thoughts since the very beginning. “It does not seem like kind of a place that would stock Antivan burning brandy. Or fine sheepskin coats. Or anything _fine_ , really.” He smiled at the Warden. “I will keep an eye out for you.”

“Thank you so much, _lath_. I will make it up to you,” Tav promised with youthful eagerness and stood on his toes to give him a kiss. The kiss was anything but cold, so it was only with the deepest regret that Zevran gently nudged him away.

“As much as I enjoy this, I must ask you to stop, _precioso_. Call me silly, but the thought of ripping my skin as we pull away frightens me quite a bit.”

Tav obediently moved away, smiling slightly and saying quietly something in elven. Zevran didn’t understand a word, of course, but Tav’s voice was tender and amused. Probably not curses then.

“Alright, let’s get it over with,” he added, turning to the rest of their group, his voice strengthening and gaining an edge that wasn’t there when he talked with Zevran. He pushed the store door open and entered, stealing a short glance at the assassin, who leaned against a wall, wrapping himself tighter in his double cloak.

Leliana followed reluctantly behind him, and after that, Alistair — whose pout was probably better suited for a childish squabble than a serious dispute.

Morrigan didn’t enter — which wasn’t really much of a surprise. Instead, she leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the door and sneezed quietly, as she wrapped herself tighter in her feathery cloak. Zevran had his doubts whether that garment could serve as anything else but a fashion statement, but he had to admit, it was a rather fetching thing — even if quite eccentric. Morrigan’s suspiciously red nose, however, ruined any effect the mysterious veil of feathers might have had in different circumstances.

“You might want to go inside, my fair _bruja_ ,” he suggested, not unkindly. “Warming up these rosy cheeks might do wonders for your colour.”

“My colour is perfectly fine, assassin,” the witch snapped, pulling her cloak tighter. “I find it astounding, however, how well have you adjusted to Fereldan _climate_ ,” she commented, resentment dropping from her every word. Zevran just shrugged, almost content in his two-layered cloak. Almost, since the cold wind still bit almost painfully every single inch of his exposed skin.

“I try to dress for the weather,” he said lightly. “I would recommend it to you as well.” It was a little bit annoying, but well, Morrigan’s waspish moods weren’t anything new to him after all this time.

“It’s a wonder you don’t wear a mabari collar then,” Morrigan huffed, apparently upset at the remark. Zevran raised a brow, not sure whether he saw the connection. Prolonged silence did its work since Morrigan scrunched her nose when he didn’t take the bait and continued.

“You follow Mahariel like a loyal hound, always ready to jump on his whim,” she accused. “One would think that a man like you would have a little more dignity.”

Zevran chuckled. Suddenly everything became clear — the witch was trying to bait him into an argument, probably for mere enjoyment. He had decided to comply — though in his own way. He wasn’t up for a fight, but riling her a bit sounded like a decent pastime.

“I would think that you had figured already that I am a man completely devoid of such useless traits. I am rather invested in my own wellbeing and I find ‘dignity’ and ‘pride’ to be concepts that wouldn’t serve it in any way.”

Morrigan pouted, scrunching her nose — it made for rather charming, even if clearly disdainful, expression.

“So trailing after that kid like his personal slave is beneficial for your wellbeing?” She asked, her tone very clearly showing what she thought about the idea.

Zevran just shrugged. He didn’t like the word, but unfortunately, the concept applied a little too well to his situation, as he started to realize in the last weeks. “I was a slave my whole life, let’s be honest. And I actually like that kid — that’s not something I could say about my previous masters. Not to mention that I am pretty convinced he’ll make sure that I’ll be rather comfortable once this whole mess is over.”

Morrigan scoffed. “I’m pretty convinced he’s going to bolt back to his clan once he gets a chance. Assuming, of course, that he’ll live through it, which is rather doubtful. I find it hard to believe that a spoiled flat-ear like you would like living in a forest with a bunch of half-wild nomads obsessed with their long past glory.”

Zevran raised his brows slightly. “It remains to be seen. He misses his clan, obviously, but I am not so convinced he’ll decide to go back. From what I gathered they wouldn’t take kindly to his proclivities and I doubt he’ll be eager to get back to them after tasting the wider world. Besides, I hope to solve the problem of my previous employment by this time.”

“Oh, that’s surely what you would think.” The witch’s expression clearly told what she thought about him getting away from the Crows. “From what I have gathered, he won’t give up his people for mere sex. He might be susceptible to your wooing, but he seems rather ashamed of the very fact.”

“Oh, in my opinion he simply does not like you to hear everything we might be doing – but if this affliction you are speaking of is real, I fully intend to heal him of it before we meet our grisly ends.” Zevran grinned behind the high collar of his cloak, trying to ignore the grimace she made. Morrigan scoffed again.

“How noble!”

Zevran only smiled wider. “Oh, I owe him a lot — that’s the least I can do in return,” he said lightly, pretending he didn’t understand her jibe. “He’s a good kid, doesn’t deserve to be miserable for the rest of his life — no matter how short it would be.”

“And here I would’ve never taken you for a charitable sort,” Morrigan snorted.

Zevran was already preparing the answer when the store door opened with a loud thud and Tavaris stormed out, seething.

The assassin raised one brow.

“I take it didn’t go well?” He asked lightly.

“He asked me if I am real and if I ate _shem_ children, Zevran!” Tavaris answered, kicking a pebble. The assassin winced — it was painful enough to watch the crazy Dalish walk in the snow almost barefooted; kicking stones just in these ridiculous socks Tav considered to be snow boots was even worse.

To distract himself from the thought, he looked through the opened door into the store.

“ _Querido_. It’s just a kid,” he said, flabbergasted, for once at the loss of the words. Fortunately, he didn’t have to put his feelings into words, as Morrigan scoffed quietly.

“Oh, please. ‘Tis no longer entertaining, just simply pathetic. If Ferelden’s only hope is a man who can’t even handle a child’s ignorant questions, then this country is truly doomed.”

Tavaris turned around, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking another pebble before he looked up at the witch with an expression that had to be barely concealed pout.

“You don’t understand,” he accused. “That little _shem_ didn’t concoct it himself. It was other _itelsalen_ that taught him that the People eat children”

Morrigan just rolled her eyes.

“If you loathe them so much, then why would you give any heed to their superstitions? They are _itelsalen_ , you say. Shouldn’t one of the People be above the opinions of such a wretched lot?”

Tavaris deflated a bit, the stubborn set of his jaw softening. Zevran had an awkward feeling that he was missing a huge part of this conversation. Before he even managed to ask his bubbling questions, Tavaris’ eyes took a suspicious look.

“How do you even know what that means, Morrigan?” He asked, sensing a deception. “I didn’t know you’ve spent enough time with the clans to learn such a language.”

The witch just shrugged her expression again that of a bored superiority. “’Tis not important; not that I would need to understand the exact meaning of the word. Your tone made the sentiment clear enough.”

Well, this was true enough, Zevran admitted to himself. He knew Tavaris despised humans, but judging by his tone and expressions, the depths of this hate were apparently greater than he had assumed so far. It seemed that contrary to Zevran’s prior observations the boy was capable of lying through his teeth with no one being any wiser. That… that made for a very dangerous precedent.

He had started to trust Tavaris to some extent — at least in his unwavering openness. Now he felt played for a fool. Wasn’t this the very thing he was wondering about a few weeks ago before he decided that the Dalish was too sheltered and to honest to hide anything? 

Or maybe it was simply the case of the Warden’s frayed nerves. That would be a much less dangerous option, but Zevran hadn’t lived to his thirties by lowering his guard just because it was more convenient to believe in people.

With this thought, he donned his warmest smile — the so-called ‘honest’ one.

“Their views might be misguided, mi _caro amico_ , but they are right to recognize a threat in you,” he said, then his grin turned wicked; a very deliberate change of expression. “After all, this is one of the things I find most charming about you.”

The hard look on Tavaris’ face softened instantly and he looked up at Zevran, a shy trace of a smile appearing on his face.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [ Rosehip ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip/pseuds/Rosehip) who made this chapter readable!


	14. Disciples of Andraste (Pt.I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise surprise. This is basically first half of the chapter - I thought I might post it already, while the second half is being edited.

It took a while before Zevran managed to sweet-talk Tavaris into relaxing, but thankfully when Leliana and Alistair emerged from the store he wasn’t seething anymore. That was good, anger made people stupid — and Zevran didn’t want him to act stupid. Even with all his freshly discovered doubts, the tiny Warden was still his best bet at surviving.

“Ready to go?” The short elf asked brusquely at the sight of the humans. “I would like to be done with that place already.”

Leliana paused, grasping the sack tighter — on her hands reddened with cold the whiteness of her knuckles was even more visible than usual.

“Actually, if you don’t mind… I would prefer to take supplies to the horses, maybe set up a camp and think a bit. I might have overreacted earlier… but… I really don’t know what I think and what I feel about you right now, Tavaris. I think it would be better if I went back for now.” Tavaris’ expression didn’t change, but Zevran didn’t miss his shoulders relaxing minutely. He nodded at Leliana.

“Of course, take your time. I think we should be able to handle the rest without you in this situation.” It seemed that after his anger lessened he decided to do some damage control. While it was _the right thing to do_ , Zevran wasn’t sure how to interpret that. His newly raised paranoia told him that it had to be a calculated move, element of an elaborate deception. Another part of him, the part that grew to like the young Warden, wanted to believe that the kid was just trying to set things right after the whole mess that took place in the last few hours. Still, the question, what else he had missed was burning a hole in Zevran’s mind.

 Tavaris looked up at Alistair, his face a perfect blank mask.

“What about you? Do you want to go with us or do you prefer to join Leliana?” His tone was kind, the same he used in earlier stages of their journey when he tried to convince Zevran that he wasn’t an enemy.

Alistair, apparently was much less susceptible to that voice than the Crow himself, as he glared heavily at Tavaris.

“I guess someone should go with you to make sure you won’t _murder_ anyone else.” The look he sent towards Zevran and Morrigan clearly said that he hadn’t thought them capable of such a task. Zevran just shrugged with an amused smile. He wasn’t going to argue with _that_.

Tavaris wasn’t half as amused. His jaw took the stubborn set again as he responded to Alistair’s glare with a glower of his own.

“Fine,” he spat. “But don’t expect me to roll over if anyone tries to kill me _again_.”

““What about not shooting people in the eye when they've surrendered already? Have you considered that option?”

“Maybe I should shoot you instead, so you won’t have to witness my wicked ways anymore?” Tav’s willingness to smooth things over with their human companions evaporated in an eyeblink. That could end badly — and they had enough bad endings for today.

“My dear Wardens,” Zevran said amiably, stepping between them with a charming smile. Another fight was the last thing they needed right now. “I understand that emotions are running high, but we don’t really have too many Wardens left here and with the Blight to stop it would be rather unfortunate if we ended with one less.” He put his hand on Tavaris’ chest, feeling woven leather straps of his armor under his fingers, while his other hand stopped just a silver from Alistair’s cold plate. “Maybe it would be smarter to save this conversation until later, this time without insults and threats, eh?”

Tavaris gave him a slightly betrayed look.

“I was trying to be civil!” He protested though he didn’t seem as if he resented him for the intervention. On Zevran’s another side, Alistair frowned deeply, shying from the hand that didn’t even touch him.

“Yes, _querido_ , you tried. And the first steps were truly marvellous! Unfortunately, I have to admit that threatening someone with an arrow to the eye would hardly sound civil even where I hail from, and you should know already that we are distinctly more relaxed in most of these matters than Fereldans.”

“Yes,” Alistair grumbled. “Much more relaxed, and much more stabby as well. But I am not surprised that you take his side. Birds of the a feather and stuff.” He stepped back, his voice dripping disdain as much as it was possible when using words like ‘stabby’.

Tavaris tensed even more, but Zevran pressed his hand to his chest with more force, smiling at Alistair.

“I am flattered by the comparison, but I don’t really think that Tavaris would be a good Crow material, dear Alistair. He has a _conscience_ , you see, and that’s not a very Crow-like trait.” He flashed his teeth at the Templar, a warning that would be clear for any Antivan, or at least anyone less thick-headed than the big Warden.

The help came from a rather unexpected direction.

“Alistair, I know you’re trying to do the right thing, but this is not the _right way_ to do it,” Leliana said quietly, leaning her supply sack against her hip. “We are all angry and upset here, and Tavaris maybe even more than the rest of us. I don’t condone what he did, but he had his reasons — and we have a duty to the Maker and to the people to stop the Blight, no matter how we feel about each other. Zevran is right. We should let this matter rest until we’ll able to talk about it without waving our weapons around and insulting each other.” He sighed, picking the sack again, then send a heavy look towards Tav. “But we _will_ have to talk about it. This… This wasn’t something that can be ignored.”

“Fair eno…” Tavaris started to say, his voice betraying his weariness. But Leliana wasn’t finished yet, her voice taking an edge to it that wasn’t there before.

“And Zevran. I understand what are you doing and any other time I would say it is really adorable that you get so protective of your lover. But don’t threaten _my_ friends ever again.”

The Wardens both looked at her, their animosity briefly forgotten, as they almost echoed themselves.

“He was threatening him?”

“I was threatened?”

Zevran just sighed deeply, looking down at Tavaris with fatigued resignation. He still wasn’t sure how much of this was a play and how much an honest reaction, but he had to admit one thing: the Dalish sometimes really felt dense as a brick.

Leliana looked at him with a resigned expression; despite their edged conversation — or maybe because of it — Zevran felt some kind of weird kinship with her for a moment. Her chipper religiousness underlined by naive, casual racism was sometimes hard to bear. He understood why Tavaris and Morrigan were so annoyed with her; but still, she was a Bard. A Bard would never be a Crow — still, she was trained in the Game as he was in murder, and trained in murder as he was in the Game. This was probably as much common ground as he could get with anyone, considering his situation.

“Could you cease this ridiculous baying and start moving?” Morrigan asked, the intended aloofness of her tone slightly ruined by a loud sneeze. “As amusing as this is to watch, you're going to attract unnecessary attention. Don’t count on me if you lure here a band of angry mages ready to put you on their sacrificial altars.” She sneezed again. "At this point, I might even consider aiding them with that."

Tavaris sighed, stepping away from Zevran.

“You're right,” he said quietly, not looking at anyone. “I am going to the chantry. You… you just decide who is going with me and who is staying.”

“Alistair?” Leliana asked softly.

“No way I am leaving these heathens to deal with a holy man,” Alistair protested. “Even if people here are… quite odd.”

Zevran saw Tav’s hackles rise again so he interrupted before the situation escalated again.

“You wound me, dear Alistair! I'll let you know that I am Andrastian as well. I know all the daily prayers and I even went to sermons sometimes. Sister Lisabeta’s bosom really made me _contemplate the divine_.”

Alistair groaned while Tavaris snickered quietly. The human Warden turned to Zevran with a desperate look on his face.

“Is there really nothing sacred for you, Zevran?”

“I am offended by this assumption!” The Crow protested, putting a discreet hand on Tav’s back and guiding him to the steep road leading up to the Chantry. “Let me tell you I was really _devoted_ to that bosom and many other bosoms after that. I truly find them a trace of the Maker in this world.”

“And we’re back from amusing to sleazy,” Morrigan commented, starting to climb the road as well. “It’s truly a wonder nobody had cut your tongue off, assassin.”

Zevran made sure to make his gasp as theatrical as possible.

“Cut off my tongue?” He asked, clutching his chest with the hand that didn’t hover at Tavaris’ back. “ _Mi bruja hermosa_! That would be like breaking all the statues on Antiva City’s Golden Plaza! Like devastating the Winter Palace of Halamshiral! Razing the Grand Necropolis in Nevarra! There are treasures that _shan’t_ be ever destroyed!”

“Actually, the Winter Palace in Halamshiral is something I would rather gladly devastate,” Tavaris said quietly. “It’s been built on stolen land and on bones of the People. Just another monument of _shemlen_ treacherous nature.”

Zevran chuckled deeply, even though he was still wary of the tense atmosphere — and wasn’t particularly happy to have his efforts of easing it sabotaged by the Warden.

“Well, in this case, the Winter Palace doesn’t measure up to my tongue. If you’d allowed me to show you, you’d never make such a grave mistake again.”

There was a low, unhappy grunt from Tavaris — apparently, there was no way to cheer the boy up now — while Morrigan, as expected, scoffed loudly.

“Just try and I will freeze you dead, assassin.”

Despite what many people would think, Zevran knew perfectly well when to stop. Morrigan’s voice had lost the subtle, playful note it had before, so he obligingly shut his mouth, moving even closer to Tavaris instead.

Thankfully, they have reached the Chantry before the hostile silence started to wear on his nerves.

 

The building was distinctive against the houses build in equal amount from stone and wood, resembling a little stronghold. The architecture clashed with other buildings in the village; heavy, low-set and wide, giving an impression of age. The steep roof above the solid walls was obviously added much later, sharing its flimsiness with the cottages scattered around. Zevran was never a connoisseur of architecture, but even to him, there was something deeply unfitting about the whole setup.

Even so, it seemed that he was the only one interested in architecture. Alistair was still glaring at Tavaris as if he was expecting him to randomly start butchering everyone around, starting with his own dog. The dog in question was sniffing around, running few steps away. Morrigan, as usual, was a picture of indifference. Tavaris stopped before the wooden door — gate, even — listening intently to the stifled sounds behind the thick wood.

After a moment of waiting Morrigan fixed her grip on her staff.

“Do you intend to stare at that gate until the Darkspawn find this hovel, Tavaris?” She asked, her tone biting. Another sneeze ruined the effect again.

“I… I’m not sure,” he admitted. “There’s a sermon there, so we were told. I am not sure what the customs are. Can we just enter? I don’t want to offend them right from the start.”

“It should be fine, as long as we don't interrupt,” Alistair answered. This was the first time he spoke since their angry exchange. “If we stand in the back and wait, nobody should be angry.”

Tavaris nodded stiffly and cracked the door open, Zevran slid in just behind him.

The room felt suffocating, while rather drafty at once. The villagers were huddled in the middle, in front of a low dais on which a weathered priest with an impressive beard gesticulated wildly. Tavris stood close to the wall next to the door, watching with clear apprehension. Zevran joined him, leaning against the wall lazily. From the lack of better things to do, he started to listen to the sermon and frowned. This didn’t sound anything like prayers he knew from the Chantry in Antiva.

Maybe some things were lost in translation, he decided. And Antiva is the whole world away from here, so some cultural differences are a must.

Way-too-loud clank of the armour announced Alistair who reluctantly joined them under the wall, then, after an even longer moment, Morrigan shuffled in reluctantly, silent like a cat, if not for her loud sniffling

“I don’t know any of these prayers,” Alistair whispered after a while. “And I was raised in the Chantry.” Zevran acknowledged the information with a low hum. This either meant nothing or was quite alarming — for the sake of caution he decided to treat it as latter. In his experience, surprises rarely turned out well. He himself was an epitome of a surprise. He knew best.

Tavaris didn’t seem to comprehend the problem.

“I don’t know the songs of other clans as well,” he whispered shrugging lightly. “But I am sure that they are _heathen_ as well.”

Zevran couldn’t miss the annoyed twitch of Tavaris’ prominent nose.

“My dear Wardens, let’s not…” He started, in a hushed voice, but the priest’s booming voice had interrupted him.

“Ah, welcome! It seems that we have some visitors wandering around the village. I trust you have enjoyed your time in Haven so far?”

That… wasn’t good. Bloody altars, gruff militiamen patrolling the edge of the village and now this surprisingly _jolly_ priest? It didn’t add up — or rather it added up well, but the result made for a rather unpleasant picture.

Tavaris’ nose twitched again so Zevran took it upon himself to answer before the archer caused another disaster.

“It’s a bit chilly, Father, but the views are spectacular.” He smiled, putting all his charm in this expression. “But please, don’t mind us — we had no intention of disrupting the service.”

“If that’s the case, maybe you shouldn’t have disrupted it,” the priest was smiling, though the expression was obviously faked. “But that’s of no matter, we are done here.”

One of the women looked at the revered father startled.

“And what about the Sanguine Canticle, Father? We haven’t gotten to it yet!”

The man just shook his head.

“That’s for a different sermon my child, don’t worry — and let me talk with our guests.”

If that wasn’t suspicious, Zevran was a blushing virgin — not to mention: Sanguine Canticle? It sounded more like a ritual he could have encountered in a Crow sanctum than a part of normal Chantry service.

So, he did the best thing he could do when suspecting dangerous secrets: he acted oblivious.

“That’s most gracious of you, Father,” he said, never losing his smile. “It’s uplifting to find such warm hospitality in these freezing mountains. We were hoping for some shelter and I see we won’t be disappointed, no?”

The priest’s face seemed frozen in a stiff grin. With every second it looked less like a friendly expression and more like a predator baring its teeth in a threat.

“Of course. We wouldn’t be so barbaric to refuse, knowing the long way you set on tomorrow.”

“It’s great to know I wasn’t mistaken!” Zevran didn’t miss the not-so-subtle suggestion. “I hope you won’t mind us asking a few questions before we get on our way… We’re looking for a frien…”

“We’ve seen the bloody altars and knives in the village,” Alistair blurted out suddenly. Zevran bit back the a groan, watching in desperation as the superficial friendliness melted away from the priest’s face in an instant.

“This, my brothers, is what happens when you allow outsiders into the village. They have no respect for our privacy. They will tell others of us if we let them. Word will spread, and then… what? You, strangers, do not understand our ways. You would bring a war to Haven with your ignorance.”

“And what about brother Genetivi?” This time Tavaris chimed in, his tone more irritated than actually worried. “What did you do to him?”

“We don’t owe you any explanations for our actions. We have a sacred duty.” The human looked at them while speaking but at this moment Zevran was painfully aware of the fact that he no longer spoke to them. His hands found the hilts of the daggers on the instinct. “Failure to protect Her would be a greater sin.” The blades slid smoothly halfway from their sheaths, the yellowish glint of deathroot poison on them reassuring. “All will be forgiven.”

 


	15. Disciples of Andraste (Pt.II)

 Zevran lunged towards the guards. Steel ran out as they drew their weapons and sped from their stations at the Chantry walls. The air around the priest crackled with power- a mage! No time- Zevran dove under the arm of a guard, his blade grazing the skin of the man's inner elbow. A cut so shallow might not poison him, but a mountain of steel and man lumbered towards Tavaris, his greataxe held aloft. Tav blinked, aware of the danger too late. Zevran barreled into the man. They crashed to the ground. Zevran sliced into the man's cheek, sure of the poison this time. He leaped off the human as an arrow whizzed over his head. Bone-deep relief washed through him.

Tav had recovered and already nocked another arrow. The Mage-priest readied another spell but it diffused harmlessly as Zevran knocked him off his feet. Morrigan took advantage of his distraction and froze the man to the floor. Alistair parried a hit aimed at his head by one of the guards with the heavy-gauntleted arm. Zevran’s teeth tingled as the priest reached out to the Fade, straining against Morrigan’s spell. The Crow didn’t intend to wait and see if he was going to succeed — he jammed his dagger into mage’s carotid artery. The frost started to melt around them as the old man gurgled, blood seeping out from the deep wound to the chantry’s floor.

He pulled his weapon free and jumped out, seeking the next threat. Behind him, Alistair finally managed to get his shield from his back and used it to pummel one of the village guards into the ground — which would be all well and good if he didn’t miss another one closing on him from the back. Zevran moved to assist him, but he wasn’t even halfway there when a stripped arrow went through his gauntlet. The human shrieked in pain — a quite disgraceful sound — and dropped his axe. The weapon glanced harmlessly off his armored back.

Zevran changed direction as a woman stumbled towards Morrigan with her blade poised to strike. She wore excellent armor but Zevran spotted her unprotected armpit.

Focused on the woman, he almost missed the guard approaching him from behind; he more felt than heard the quiet whiz of air cut by the falling blade.

It was too late to dodge on an instinct he sucked in the dormant energy from the blood spilling from under the priest's body and stepped _sideways_ , his body temporarily losing its tangibleness, as he pulled himself halfway to the Fade.

The blade fell down, harmlessly cutting through the mist that was Zevran's shoulder now, as the surprised attacker stumbled and fell forward through space where the Crow's body was supposed to be.

The spell exhausted him quickly — not born to manipulate the Fade, these small tricks were taxing on his mind and body. He clung to the Fade though for a moment longer, waiting for the attacker to leave the area where Zevran's own body would materialize. It was an awkward and very dangerous experience to materialize around something else and Zevran wasn't particularly eager to cut stranger's body parts out of his legs. He was even less eager to explain they found themselves there in the first place

Zevran pulled himself back to the physical realm and plunged his dagger into the nape of the unfortunate guard. He staggered into the female guard. They fell to the floor together in a disgraceful heap. As the assassin was pulling his weapon out, Morrigan tossed a freezing spell on both of them and effectively ending the fight.

The assassin breathed in deeply, slightly unsettled as he usually was when he used the Crows' special abilities. Morrigan looked at him with a curious expression and slightly raised eyebrow.

 _Braska_! That was exactly what he wanted to avoid by refraining from using his more special skills. The others didn’t seem to notice anything odd, and he was fairly sure that Morrigan wouldn't tell on him — yet. He had a healthy dose of respect for the witch — and he strongly believed she wouldn’t have any problems with using such juicy blackmail material if she considered it useful. The question was, how much did she notice and what he could do.

“Zevran!” Tavaris tossed his bow to the ground and jumped to Zevran, his huge eyes shining with worry. “Are you alright?” His hands were on the assassin instantly, as he looked him over searching for an injury. Upon the inspection, the frantic look gave way to a confused furrow of his brow, before he hesitantly stepped away.

“I am sorry… I thought…” He coughed, clearing his throat and looking up at Zevran. “I thought I saw one of them cut your arm, _vhenan_. I didn’t mean to overreact.”

“The blade went to the side,” the lie rolled smoothly off the assassin’s tongue. “You don’t have to worry about me, _bello_.” He reached up to tilt Tav’s chin up for a kiss — Tav loved being kissed — then, realizing, he was soaked in blood, withdrew it quickly. Not quickly enough, though, as there already was a bloody smear on the Dalish man’s face.

“I am sorry, my dear Warden, I didn’t mean to leave bloodstains on you,” he apologized quickly, giving him a roguish smile. “These pretty eyes make me forget about the world way too often.”

Tavaris smiled with resignation, trying to wipe the stain from his skin, but only making things worse — his own hands weren’t exactly clean either.

“It’s fine, _vhenan_. I believe we’re all due for a bath now.” He stood up on his tip-toes to place a quick kiss on Zevran’s cheek and looked around, surveying the chantry’s room. His expression turned grim again.

“But I see a different problem here. We still don’t know where Genitivi is.”

Morrigan shrugged.

“Somewhere around. If we catch one of these villagers I believe the Crow will be able to make them talk sooner or later.”

“We’re not torturing villagers!” Alistair protested, appalled.

“Why are you instantly thinking about me torturing people, hmm, dear Alistair? Is that some secret fancy of yours? I admit I find the idea rather intriguing,” Zevran purred, looking around. Alistair was the most rewarding person to tease like that — a blushing virgin who nevertheless read enough naughty novels to have an idea what Zevran was talking about. On Tavaris, most of these remarks would be lost.

As Alistair spluttered, Zevran turned his attention to the twin doors behind the altar.

“But I would first check what we can find there,” he suggested, waving his hand in their direction. “We might be able to learn something before resorting to any unpleasant means.”

 

 

The assassin decided that Tavaris should have prayed to whatever gods the Dalish tended to pray in thanks for having him close. He managed to figure out the existence and location of the secret room soon enough — from what they remembered about the outer shape of the building, it was pretty symmetrical; while the rooms on both sides of the altar were significantly different in shape and size.

“Here, we have found a secret room, my friends,” he announced cheerfully, knocking at the curved outer wall of the ‘smaller’ room. The sound was different here than on the other walls, but it was only Tav’s ear that twitched a little.

“Room, you say.” Alistair didn’t sound convinced, but Zevran didn’t pay attention, surveying the wall carefully. If he wasn’t attentive — or simply unlucky — he could miss important clues, so he ignored the templar, fingers tracing the uneven surface of the wall.

In Zevran’s experience opening mechanisms were usually placed somewhere between waist- and eye-hight — still, he had to examine each stone carefully. The only thing he was worried about was the possibility that whatever lever opened the door, it might be additionally secured with a lock. Testing Tavaris’ patience wasn’t something he wanted to do, not after today, even if everything suggested that he was in the Warden’s good graces.

His fingers caught on a stone block sticking from the wall a bit further than the rest.

“ _Ah, presa!”_ He exclaimed quietly, his fingers deftly seeking any catches and possible traps on the surface of the rock. A few minutes later he found the correct press point; the rock tile sprang open, showing an opening with a small metal ring inside. No locks, Andraste’s blessings. Zevran checked the opening carefully — if he made this door himself, he would surely include something very sharp and very poisonous in the mechanism.

There seemed to be no trace of a trap, but it felt a bit too easy. Zevran caught his lockpicks uselessly in the upper wall of the recess, pretending to be holding something, and called out.

“Alistair, my dear friend! Would you be so kind and give me a hand? I need you to pull something for me.”

The Warden approached with a deep frown on his face.

“Is that really necessary?” He asked, looking at Zevran suspiciously.

“My dear Alistair, as you can see I have both of my hands busy. I just need you to pull on this little ring there — I believe it should reveal the door to the hidden chamber.”

Alistair didn’t seem convinced, staring at Zevran suspiciously as If he thought that he would glare some evil ploy out of the assassin. It wasn’t even a very good glare, and with his bad hand starting to tremble he would pull on the chain himself — but now, after he asked it would look abysmally stupid.

Not to mention that he wasn’t completely convinced that there was nothing dangerous in the hole. If he could make Alistair risk his hand instead…

“Oh, for all that is holy,” Tavaris scoffed behind Zevran’s back. “I am not going to stand here until the Evanuris return.” He leaned lightly against the assassin and reached into the hollow.

Zev’s brain froze for a second — he didn’t intend to risk Tavaris of all the people gathered. He asked _Alistair_ for his help for a reason, and this reason was that losing Tavaris to poison would be much worse ending than losing Alistair. The guy was good-looking, but with the awkward animosity he exuded, Zevran had a hard time warming up to him.

Thankfully the mechanism seemed to be much less sophisticated than Zevran gave the villagers credit for. As Tav pulled, the wall to their left creaked loudly and started to slowly rotate on some hidden axis. Much to his relief, there was no poison, no hidden needles — and apparently no other crafty workings, as Tavaris already pulled a length of chain out of the hollow, grunting with effort — getting only a silver of opening for his efforts.

Zevran slid his useless lockpicks into their sheath, debating whether he should give his lover a hand — thankfully, Alistair finally stepped in, reaching around Tavaris and grabbing the length of the chain in the front of him.

“I would be jealous if the view was not so enticing,” Zevran said lightly, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the Wardens with clear appreciation. “Two manly men in such a sensual embrace — this is not a sight common in this frigid land.”

Tavaris jerked abruptly, smashing Alistair’s chin with the top of his head. Alistair cursed, reeling back heavily. The stone door squeaked loudly and suddenly fell into the place under their joined weight.

Tavaris dropped the chain.

“What the fuck, Zevran?” He hissed, rubbing the tender spot on his head where he hit Alistair. The Templar almost fell back on his ass, kept standing only thanks to the chain he hadn’t yet released with one of his hands. “Sensual embrace? Have you lost your mind?”

“Ah, I apologize if I offended, that wasn’t my intention, my dear Warden!” Zevran raised  his hands in a warding gesture. “I will say no more.”

Tavaris huffed loudly, looking at Zevran with heavy resignation. Alistair finally dropped the chain, rubbing his sore chin and grimacing.

“You know, I am a Warden too, right, Zevran? I don’t get why there’s only one Warden here worth apologising to.” He said. “Especially that angry elven guys with shoulders wider than mine definitely aren’t my type. I’d sooner try my chances with the icy-icy witch there.”

Morrigan raised one of her narrow brows.

“So you truly are curious how would you fare as a toad, aren’t you?” She asked. Alistair just shrugged.

“If I am to choose between you and him…”

Tavaris huffed quietly.

“Thankfully you don’t have to choose anything. Now, are we going to discuss your preferable bedfellows here, or are we going to check if we will find anything about these cursed Ashes?”

“ _Sacred Ashes_ ,” Alistair corrected, grimacing. Tavaris rolled his eyes.

“At the moment they seem to be the bane of my life.” He sounded as if he was going to say something else, but there was a soft groan — very soft — from the hidden room. Tavaris’ ears twitched and he turned his head to the door. The room was dark, so Zevran doubted he saw much. Judging by the oblivious faces of the humans, they didn’t hear a thing.

“It seems that we might not be alone,” he warned them, losing his playful facade for a brief moment.

His Warden fixed his grip on his bow, then reconsidered and hung the weapon across his shoulders — it didn’t look comfortable, but for sure would be faster than returning it to its sling — and drew his long dagger instead. He turned to them and inclined his head in the direction of the room, waiting just a second before he slipped soundlessly into the dark room.

Zevran hurried behind him, keeping quiet as well, but the effect was immediately ruined by Alistair’s loud steps. Andraste’s blessed ass, that boy had all the grace of a wounded druffalo. They had to teach him somehow how to move without alerting everyone three villages away.

 

 

Stepping into the dark room Zevran blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust — just in front of him Tavaris seemed to be doing the same.

Alistair stumbled into Zevran, stepping on his heel painfully.

“Is there any reason why we don’t have any light? You know, light helps when you’re trying to _look_ around.”

Zevran clicked his tongue.

“Only if you’re human.”

“I would venture a guess that they do it to make you uncomfortable, Alistair,” Morrigan explained, her tone condescending. She had sent a small, white spark of light after them, though.

The light gradually brightened, the faint wisp gathering strength as it floated nearer to the two elves. It revealed a round chamber — a study from the looks of it — filled mostly with tall shelves. There was a big desk with a comfortable looking armchair, with papers strewn on its surface; a couple of chests — one, half opened, showed some weapons inside. On the other one lay two elaborate staffs.

“So… Where…” Tavaris started, but a low moan from behind one of the shelves answered his unvoiced question. They hurried there, to find a man in tattered chantry robes curled up on the floor. He didn’t seem really conscious of his surroundings.

“I would guess that this is the famed brother Genitivi,” Zevran observed, leaning against the bookshelf. “He doesn’t look like he is going to tell us much.”

Tavaris, who already knelt next to the prone man, looked up at Zevran, smiling.

“How about you stopped being a smartass and gave me a hand, _lath_? I think that between the two of us we should be able to get him awake.”

The Crow didn’t miss a beat. “Of course I will give you a hand. Where would you like me to put it?” He purred, crouching next to Tav to place a quick kiss on his ear.

Tavaris smiled at him, his eyelids sensually dropping half-mast as if they were in the privacy of their own tent.

“First, on the bolt of the door,” he answered, his voice just as sultry — but his face straightened quickly. “The villagers will eventually realize that the priest isn’t coming out — and then on some elfroot extract, hot water, fresh linens? Whatever you’ll find, _ma’nehn_.”

“Is it really a good idea to barricade ourselves here?” Morrigan asked. “No beast would let itself be cornered so hopelessly.”

“You’re right, but we can’t move that man now — and if that’s really Genitivi then we’ll need some answers from him.”

Morrigan scoffed quietly.

“And of what use is he to you? He’s half dead already and I know that you find this ridiculous search as bizarre as I do. Even if you make him talk, he is going to be delirious for sure.”

“For once he’s trying to do something right — do you really have to be evil right now?” Alistair protested. Zevran stood up, flicking his ears in exaggerated exasperation.

“I had better close that door for now — please let me know when you decide who is killing whom this lovely evening.

Personally, he mostly agreed with Morrigan — while some naive part of him was curious of the Ashes, the human really looked as if he needed a miracle, or at least a spirit healer — not the mundane first aid Tavaris was able to provide.

As he left the hidden chamber Tavaris was already suggesting some creative uses of Morrigan’s spells to help the exhausted chantry brother.

The heavy bolt to the chantry doors lay near the entrance — the Crow felt rather grateful that the local maleficars took the custom to make every chantry building defensible seriously. Still, the witch was correct — getting stuck in here wouldn’t serve them in any way — so he went on a long walk around the building, surveying all the walls and windows, looking for another way out. About an hour later he decided that, unfortunately, their best bet were high stained-glass windows, so he picked a dagger from one of the corpses and started to carefully pry open the solid frames of the mosaic.

 

He was deep at work when Tavaris slipped out of the hidden chamber. His hair was mussed and there were deep shadows under his eyes. Apart from the clear exhaustion, there was also this angry set of his jaw Zevran had seen way too often, today.

The assassin dropped the completely ruined dagger and stood up to look for another one, trying to shake off the unpleasant heavy feeling in his stomach. Turning to Tavaris he smiled amiably.

“You look rather tense, _querido_. I am thinking you might enjoy an Antivan massage once we get out of here,” he suggested. “I do not wish to brag, but I was taught by the best masters of the art.”

Tav’s lips twitched in a small smile.

“I am too tired to even be angry anymore, _lath_ ,” he confessed, coming closer, wrapping his arms around Zevran’s midriff and pressing his face into the Crow’s shoulder. “Genitivi is talking with Alistair. Of course, he took me for a servant. I didn’t even have enough energy to tell him off.”

Zevran stiffened a bit — he didn’t really know how to understand _this_ kind of intimacy. Hesitantly he embraced Tavaris — that was probably what the Dalish expected — and to alleviate his own discomfort, he nipped slightly at Tav’s ear in a weak attempt to turn it into an extended foreplay.

“In this case, I just hope that the Ashes are far away and impossible to find so we could give up this ludicrous quest and find some warm, pleasant inn instead, where I would be able to ravish you properly.”

Tavaris hummed quietly, smiling into Zevran’s neck — the assassin could feel it on his bare skin, as he took off his coat while he was working.

“I’d like that,” he said quietly. “Though I am afraid that no such luck. As I left the priest was insisting that we need to bring him up the mountain. There’s supposedly a temple there, and he is convinced that we will find the Ashes there.”

“Ah, such a cursed luck. So it seems that we might still be unfortunate enough to succeed?”

At that Tavaris chuckled lowly, pressing a kiss to Zevran’s neck — exactly in the same spot where the assassin felt his smile.

“It seems so. Now, please tell me: do you have any idea how to transport a man who can barely stand up a mountain, all while avoiding angry locals and their pitchforks?”

Zevran smiled. At least here he could help.

“I am not sure about the first part, _precioso_ , but I might have an idea how to sneak out without alarming the villagers.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at panterry.tumblr.com


End file.
